Eric's Movie Reviews

127 Hours (2010)

2011-01-13T17:07:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen 1/13/2011

Might it have been a ground breaking film or a snuff nightmare? The showiness and overly beautified style of Danny Boyle's last film Slumdog Millionaire, cut and structured for the reality TV viewer with a short attention span, bleeds through in Boyle's new film 127 Hours. But what made Slumdog a two hour music video and poverty merely a road block for teen love doesn't overshadow the inherent messages in Aron Ralston's unbelievable story.
Who hasn't met a Ralston once in their life? He eats protein bars, drinks gatorade and gets high on testosterone and exhilaration. But this is the story of young exuberance being literally brought down to earth. The strength of Boyle's film is in showing how Ralston, played exceptionally well by James Franco (which will certainly earn him a best actor nomination), must come to terms with profound loneliness, and perhaps learn the idiocy and selfishness of his careless attitude, boasting to para-skying-bungee-mountain-biking friends about dances with death at the expense of his loved ones.
The issue with 127 Hours is Boyle's need to force the redemptive value of Ralston's experience in place of brutal honesty. Ultimately in showing Ralston's realization that he needs companionship to survive the movie screams Humanity too loud. The flashbacks of Ralston's shining moments in life feel too much like Kodak moments. The music by A. R. Rahman (who worked with Boyle on Slumdog) often feels too cute, as well as clips of old commercials for Juicy Fruit and Gatorade. The inevitable dismemberment scene which looms over the entire film is the only time Boyle truly challenges the audience and forces it to endure the horror of Ralston's experience. It is also the only time the cloud of Boyle's grinning technique is lifted.
A film portraying the nihilism and cruelty of the world was possible here. But not in the stomach of Danny Boyle. And perhaps for the better. The realities of Ralston's experience as well as the hardships of the world may be too unbearable to stand. The sensationalism of violence and perversion in film will never be as unwatchable as the truth.

Mom and Mom, the King and the Kids

2011-01-01T18:41:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen January 1st, 2011

The Kids Are All Right (2010)

Since its conception film has been the people's medium. Giving the people what they want, violence and particularly sex have been the basis for the vast majority of movies. (It's no mystery why Pauline Kael gave her books titles like Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and When the Lights Go Down.) But similar to the general population I'm not sure the film industry fully understands homosexuality. Hollywood has yet to learn how to effectively do gay sex. So it came as no surprise the new film The Kids Are All Right, portraying the modern American family – two moms and a donor – couldn't resist giving one of its lesbian main female characters a proper heterosexual fucking, doggy-style and the works. What saves The Kids Are All Right is at least for the first hour it doesn't take itself too seriously. Don't be fooled by the title. This film doesn't purport to be “progressive,” and the subtextual message about the legitimacy of multiple mom or dad families isn't shoved down our throats. The Kids Are All Right makes room for some tickling satirical humor. Whole Foods shopping, green obsessing, California liberals are this film's punching bag if an easy and tired one.
Just as satirizing upper-middle class couples dining-out conversations over a bottle of wine about composting and yogurt stopped being cute, The Kids Are All Right took its inevitable serious turn. This is where it becomes an extremely cliched family drama. The Julianne Moore mom feeling that she's not appreciated is portrayed in a scene where the Annette Bening mom is too busy for the bathtub because of a work related phone call. And when Mia Wasikowska as the prudish daughter finds out one of her moms slept with her donor dad she lets out her anger by getting drunk at a party and attempting to suck face with her equally prudish and possible homosexual best friend.
As the title indicates the kids end up all right, and mom and mom do too. What else could we expect from the people's medium. As long as they go home feeling like they learned something.

The King's Speech (2010)

On the conveyor-belt of British films The King's Speech is this year's fit for the store front. Between the British people's old-fashioned respect for royalty, effeminate sensibility and insecurity, dry humor and pride in stubbornness and perseverance, the inevitable Academy Award Best Picture nominee is the sum of its parts. Colin Firth's King George VI overcoming his stammering is only as uplifting as its subject matter is propped up to be. Perhaps brought on by one too many contrived life affirming, confidence assuring nods by the King's speech therapist (played to type by Geoffrey Rush) in the final minute, The King's Speech depresses rather than uplifts and diminishes one's faith in the state of creativity and independence in film.

Grizzly Mad

2010-10-31T09:12:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 10/29/2010

Some sick personality trait of mine and film director Werner Herzog had us instantly drawn to the story of Timothy Treadwell, particularly the circumstances of his death. If you're not familiar with the story; Treadwell is the man who lived with bears over the course of thirteen summers in Alaska's Katmai National Park and Reserve, filmed himself for the last five, until he was eaten by a bear in 2003. Grizzly Man is the documentary put together by Werner Herzog using Treadwell's surviving footage.
Perhaps out of a common cynicism and overall surliness, I think both Herzog and I looked to the story of Treadwell to affirm personal beliefs about man's relationship to nature. As opposed to Herzog, the notion I looked to affirm was somewhat petty. Having grown up with little or no connection to animals I've always found people who feel an emotional bond with their pet unbearably annoying, especially when they speak to them like they would an infant. I always believed people and their pets are as true a bond as children and their imaginary friends. So for me Treadwell was an example of someone whose emotional bond with animals was ultimately proven to be a lie.
Herzog on the other hand looked to affirm his belief that the world is a cruel and violent place. Herzog says on the soundtrack for Grizzly Man, “I believe the common character of the universe is not harmony, but hostility, chaos and murder.” And despite the hours of footage of Treadwell living amongst bears, sometimes even touching them, Herzog says he sees in the bears not the love and connection Treadwell believed he and the bears had, but a “blank stare and a half bored interest in food.”
Herzog was also fascinated by the madness of Treadwell: why he seemed to have a death wish. Treadwell himself admits on camera, “My life is on the precipice of death...If I show weakness, I'm dead. They will take me out, they will decapitate me, they will chop me up into bits and pieces – I'm dead.” (Of course this is exactly what ends up happening. When Treadwell appeared on Late Show with David Letterman even Letterman asks, “Is it going to happen that we a read a news item one day that you have been eaten by one of these bears?”) And despite this Treadwell idealizes the bears, almost deifies them. He gives each of them names and speaks of their wisdom. In one strange sequence in Grizzly Man when he finds a pile of excrement of one of his favorite bears, “Wendy's poop,” he exults, “It was inside her.”
But could it be that Treadwell was simply showing off for the camera. Many friends of Treadwell say in Herzog's documentary that Treadwell just wanted to be a star. Treadwell is visibly aware of the camera at all times. In the almost one-hundred hours of footage Treadwell took while in Alaska he's constantly putting himself in the foreground and the bears in the background. He seemingly becomes more the subject than the bears.
Creating an image for himself seems foremost on Treadwells mind. We learn in Herzog's documentary that this has long been an obsession of Treadwell's. Once an aspiring actor, he turned to drugs and alcohol when he lost the part of the bartender on Cheers to Woody Harrelson. And when he was in California looking for work he claimed to be an orphan from Australia, even doing a Down Under accent, for some reason hiding the truth that he grew up in a seemingly normal home in Long Island.
While in Alaska Treadwell is always trying to portray himself as the lone savior of the bears, risking his life for their protection. Yet Alaska's Katmai National Park and Reserve is a protected land with few reported cases of poaching. It appears Treadwell's idea of himself as the protector of the bears was as much a delusion as that he was an orphan from Australia. He desperately tries to maintain his image even when he's not alone. On a few occasions Treadwell is seen telling Amie Huguenard, who stayed with him the last few summers, to “get out of the shot,” saying he's supposed to be alone. He constantly reminded us on camera how daring it is of him to be alone with the bears. Yet until Treadwell and Huguenard's death, no one had been killed by bears in Alaska's Katmai National Park and Reserve. He also seems on camera infatuated with his physical appearance; his so called Prince Valiant haircut, and looking fit and athletic despite being in his mid 40's.
So what was Treadwell doing in Alaska? It's clear that he was there more for himself than for the bears, both to gain stardom and to soothe some inner pain. Treadwell admitted that living in Alaska with the bears saved him from alcohol and drug addiction. Perhaps toeing the line with bears, risking his life every day was the vice Treadwell needed as a replacement. But I think he also wanted to give his life some purpose and make something of himself. So he had to create a purpose. He had to create a persona – the protector of the bears.
Herzog says, “I have seen this madness on a movie set before,” speaking of Treadwell as he would one of his actors. Herzog also says, “I have seen human ecstasies and darkest human turmoil.” One is immediately reminded of Herzog's Fitzcarraldo (and the subsequent documentary about the film, Les Blank's Burden of Dreams, which shows how obsessive Herzog became making the film) where Klaus Kinski's character becomes obsessed with dragging a gigantic boat across land from one river to another. In fact madness has been the subject of many of Herzog's films. I was also reminded of perhaps Herzog's most famous film, Aguirre, the Wrath of God, based on Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, in which the main character Aguirre (again played by Klaus Kinski) becomes addicted to his own power and is convinced he is the wrath of god saying, “If I, Aguirre, want the birds to drop dead from the trees...then the birds will drop from the trees... I am the wrath of god. The earth I pass will see me and tremble.” Also in the making of Aguirre Herzog showed his obsessive nature. He insisted on shooting the film on location in the Amazon despite terrible weather conditions.
One might watch Grizzly Man and think Werner Herzog is making a fool of Treadwell, yet I think he actually took a very objective approach. Herzog often comments on the soundtrack of the brilliance of Treadwell as a filmmaker in his ability to capture spontaneous moments of nature, particularly Treadwell's interactions with foxes. Herzog seems to think this is where Treadwell makes a true connection with nature. Here is a point where I may disagree with Herzog. Just because Treadwell can interact with the foxes like anyone would their pet dog or cat, doesn't mean there's any difference between that and the blank stare Herzog saw in the eyes of the bears. I think we just naturally see a connection and project warmth in a cute, cuddly and nonthreatening animal like a fox and cruel indifference in a large, intimidating animal like a grizzly bear.
I don't think Herzog was out to make Treadwell the fool in an attempt to show the madness and cruelty of the world. Treadwell became the mad fool when he was finally eaten. Treadwell couldn't just be the man you may have heard about who lived with bears. He had to prove how daring he was by videotaping himself. Finally he had to up the ante one last time. The summer Treadwell was killed, he stayed in the park longer than normal. With most of the bears in hibernation by this point, Treadwell was living amongst starving and therefore much more dangerous bears. Perhaps Treadwell did have a death wish and staying longer the final summer was a type of suicide. I think in death we got the final verdict on Treadwell's sanity. Yet in death Treadwell finally got what he always really wanted – some notoriety. With Herzog's Grizzly Man he became a star.

Malcolm Lowry and "Volcano"

2010-08-09T11:58:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen August 9, 2010

The London Times said of Malcolm Lowry's first book Ultramarine (1933) that “if the art of writing is imitation, then the author has mastered it.”
Since his death in 1957 countless theses have been written on Lowry's life: some claim he was a homosexual, others claim he was impotent, all search for an explanation for his drinking, his masterpiece Under the Volcano (1947), and his subsequent failures as an author. Though not an authority on Lowry's life – having only read Under the Volcano and seen the award nominated biographical documentary “Volcano” by Donald Brittain - I would hypothesize that perhaps his true sorrow came from knowing he was an impostor.
It seems from an early age Lowry had already decided he was a failure. According to the documentary, his childhood could be summed up by a series of complaints: his mother was not loving enough, he was constantly ill, and despite his father being a body builder he was considered a sissy in school. (The Hollywood depiction of his life would immediately cut to a flashback in black and white of an overweight woman threateningly wielding a frying pan around the kitchen as little Malcolm cowered in the corner, then a shot of several kids pointing their fingers at Malcolm laughing deprecatingly.)
It seems his pain and suffering became his obsession. He drank continuously until he convinced himself he was an alcoholic. He brooded and sulked until he convinced himself he was depressed. At one point he wandered endlessly outside Bellevue Hospital, drunk and spouting gibberish, until he convinced himself and the doctors he was insane. He desperately sought his own suffering. His actions indicate not as much a cry for help but a cry for attention.
By the time Lowry was writing Under the Volcano in Mexico his obsession with his own suffering had reached a type of arrogance. He saw a sort of divine significance in his own drunken misery. When at first his novel had trouble finding a publisher, he could cope. But once Under the Volcano became a huge success, hailed worldwide as a masterpiece and a work of a genius, his life truly started to fall apart.
Afterword he drank in between struggling to come up with new ideas for novels. Not another was finished the rest of his life. He once again visited therapists and mental hospitals. After years of disappointing fans and publishers he became somewhat of a disgrace. His misery became a reality. Finally, and sadly fittingly, he died in a pool of his own vomit having downed a half bottle of gin. Too bad it wasn't Mescal.

Inception (2010)

2010-08-02T14:51:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen August 2, 2010

Not since Christmas Eve when I was ten years old have I been so eager to call it a night. Thanks to Christopher Nolan's Inception, I don't think I've ever been so excited about dreaming since I first learned about Freud.
Inception may be the first movie in a long time deserving of its place atop the box office. It's like a cross between Mission: Impossible and The Matrix cut together with as much boldness and flashiness as Nolan's Memento. (You can already give Lee Smith the Oscar for Best aka “Most” Editing.) Although I was a little disappointed the movie was easier to follow than I was led to believe. The pieces of the puzzle, the dreams within dreams within dreams within dreams actually fit together quite nicely. With the help of some rather lame explanations, of course. I would suggest instead of having these explanation scenes a word bank be printed on the back of our ticket defining "inception," "extraction," "kick," "limbo," "totem," "forger" etc. That would just about cover it – then straight into dreamland. Which leads me to my even bigger gripe. Why does every character in the end have to prefer reality when the dream world is so clearly more interesting?
But really I can't criticize Inception. It was a lot of fun. Some may say it's too literal minded, the characters are shallow, the dialogue is weak. It's not very witty, a little too dower like it doesn't know it's supposed to be fun. (And then again, it's fun anyway.) And all of those things may be true. But show me a movie with as complicated a structure, as many layers of story that also has well developed characters and great dialogue, all while sparing time to dazzle us with special effects. Maybe, in our dreams.

Kramer vs Kramer (1979)

2010-07-07T11:49:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen July 6, 2010

With Robert Benton's Kramer vs Kramer divorce has never seemed more adorable and less messy – no adultery, no prenups, just love. And learning; Kramer husband (Dustin Hoffman) how to be a better parent to their son Billy (Justin Henry); Kramer wife (Meryl Streep) how to be a more “complete” person.
One night he comes home late, for reasons of the “bringin'-home-the-bacon” variety, and she runs out on him – to California “to find myself.” “It's not you it's me,” she tells him. Now Kramer husband has to raise Billy by himself. Much bonding occurs, so when Kramer wife returns Kramer husband won't give up Billy without a fight. Lawyers and judges get involved and Kramer wife is awarded custody of Billy despite all the heart-strings being pulled in the husband's favor.
It's all very civilized and upper-middle class. (Did I mention both Kramers are advertising executives in Manhattan and wife went to Smith.) Meryl Streep seems to be in about 15 minutes, of which she spends about 13 crying, and somehow she won Best Actress. Hoffman runs a lot with briefcases and portfolios under his arm and shares many warm looks with cute little Justin Henry which won him Best Actor.
In the end Kramer wife comes to her senses and decides to let husband keep Billy because she thinks it's best for their son. How nice. I'd say divorce has never seemed more sensible – even desirable. Maybe when Kramer vs Kramer was awarded Best Picture a few directors and producers had other things in mind. After seeing what it did for the Kramers I'd sign on the dotted line.

Duel in the Sun (1946)

2010-07-02T10:31:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen July 2, 2010

After ten minutes of Dimitri Tiomkin Prelude and Overture the movie starts. The opening credits say King Vidor's Duel in the Sun with Jennifer Jones, Joseph Cotton, Gregory Peck, Lionel Barrymore, Herbert Marshall, Lillian Gish, Walter Huston, Charles Bickford, Harry Carey and on and on. With so many names in big bold letters how could it go wrong? The only more amazing list was of the uncredited directors: William Dieterle, Josef von Sternberg. Another was David O. Selznick who also produced and wrote the script.
Then again I asked myself, how could it not go wrong? And so so wrong it did. Duel in the Sun, which was more accurately known at the time as “Lust in the Dust,” is so bad it's impressive.
Jennifer Jones plays the ravishing “half-breed” who puckers her lips and puffs up her chest. She makes them cowboys go wild. Gregory Peck keeps his hair wet and his hands dirty and does his best impression of a hunk. (Southern drawl has never sounded so articulate.) From the moment they make eye contact they look like they want to take a bite out of one another. (I think I saw Jones lick her lips.) All that's missing is a mating cry. Finally they kiss and it brings the house down. Jones resists at first – then again she aspires to be a lady. But eventually Peck's manly charms overcome her to the point she decides to loathe him for it. The passion boils over resulting in the two trying to kill each other. Fantastic! They both shoot each other then ask, “Are you okay, darling?” Outstanding! One of the great endings I can remember – two people dying in their killers/lovers arms. They didn't realize how much they loved each other until they'd killed each other. Did I mention this was a love story?
Joseph Cotton plays Peck's brother, the good guy, who Jones loves until she realizes how boring he is, and presumably sterile. Just before Peck shoots Cotton he delivers this line, “Don't give me your high and mighty noble talk, Big Words.” Brilliant! Lionel Barrymore plays the same part he played in It's a Wonderful Life except on a horse. Lillian Gish plays Mr. Potter's wife and she really is never bad enough for this movie, although she has her one overwrought dying seen. And how could I forget Butterfly MacQueen, who didn't get her name in bold, again playing the mousy maid from Gone with the Wind.
Duel in the Sun is so bad it's great. And hilarious. And irresistibly entertaining. Some would even say it's good. Maybe it is? Don't see no reason why not.

The Life of Emile Zola (1937)

2010-06-27T18:17:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen June 27, 2010

When Paul Muni in full Emile Zola beard screams about truth in William Dieterle's The Life of Emile Zola I couldn't help but chuckle. Or was it that I gagged but the sewage that spewed from my mouth was thought too lurid to survive any retelling?
Hollywood has always told its own version of history, but why does it always have to be at the expense of facts? In the case of The Life of Emile Zola the lack of truth is not particularly egregious but it is particularly ironic – and perhaps an opportunity for a teaching moment.
Emile Zola was a man about truth. The Life of Emile Zola agrees. He was tried and found guilty of defamation for accusing in a newspaper article members of the French army of convicting Alfred Dreyfus of treason knowing he was innocent, and trying to cover up their mistake by acquitting Major Esterhazy of treason knowing he was guilty. Zola fled to England. Dreyfus was let out of prison after the French government collapsed. And Zola died of carbon monoxide poisoning soon after. Thankfully fact and the film are still on the same page.
Here's where fact meets Hollywood. Emile Zola was famous in France long before writing Nana as the film portrays. (Although a small foot note, every detail counts where fact is concerned.) Alfred Dreyfus' wife never met with Emile Zola and begged him to help her husband, showing him evidence her husband was innocent. And in the category of Hollywood by omission, there was no mention whatsoever in the film of Emile Zola accusing in his article members of the military of antisemitism against Dreyfus.
I say, Why? Do these fabrications not make the movie less substantive? Do they not make the story more dull? Why must Hollywood always take liberties with the truth? Why must it mold history to fit its cliches? I say, stop the over-fictionalizing and fantasizing! I say, stop making every trip to the movies an unlearning of history! J'Accuse! J'Accuse!

Seven Chances (1925)

2010-06-24T10:56:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen June 24, 2010

In this wonderful Buster Keaton comedy the set-up is perfect. Jimmy Shannon (Keaton) is down on his luck – some trouble with his girlfriend and desperately in need of money. He has just found out he's set to inherit seven million dollars from his grandfather as long as he gets married by 7:00 PM on his 27th birthday. Well it just so happens that his 27th birthday … is today!
Of course his girlfriend – a sentimentalist – doesn't so much care for the idea of getting married just so he can inherit seven million dollars. Now Shannon's really up against it. A series of embarrassing proposals, including one to a mannequin, prove futile. So his friend gives him a hand by placing an ad in the newspaper looking for all women interested in a husband and seven million dollars. No need to go into detail – one thing leads to another, a little misunderstanding – but before he knows it Shannon is being chased by thousands of disgruntled brides in gowns that look more like togas stolen from the set Cecil B. DeMille's Ben-Hur (made the same year). It's a classic sequence in Keaton films. (And it's another chance for him to show off his athleticism.)
Seven Chances is hilarious, great fun. It was a fresh take on marriage in 1925 and hasn't dated a bit. In the end Shannon gets hitched just as time expires. And to his girlfriend – the sentimentalist. (So love sort of prevails.) How could she resist – Shannon, I mean.

Autumn Sonata (1978)

2010-06-23T10:18:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen June 23, 2010

One of Ingmar Bergman's last films tells the story of a mother (Ingrid Bergman) and her daughter (Liv Ullmann). When Mom is an intelligent, worldly concert pianist and daughter is a dull housewife and an emotional wreck, of course it's all Mom's fault – “You didn't love me,” “You were never there for me,” “I cried myself to sleep” etc. When mother comes to visit daughter it's all smiles at first, then one night (and for nearly the rest of the film) daughter lets mother have it. It's all sorrow and tears to the end. This is one of those films where the character you're led to hate the most – the mother – is the only one you like because she is the only one not whining about her life – or whines the least. When it's not painfully tiresome in its ideas about parent child relationships it's just boring.

The Sound of Crumpling Trash

2010-06-05T19:34:00.000-07:00

Eric Jessen 6/5/2010

(Email advice to my brother John on the contents of his external hard drive)

If you still have The Sound of Music delete it immediately and never watch it in your entire life. It was one of the worst, most revolting pieces of trash I've ever sat through. I've never hated mom (a hopeless sucker for sappy musicals) and dad (a hopeless sucker for anything popular from the 1960's) more when they tried to convince me it's a classic.

After surviving three hours of Julie Andrews and her seven dwarfs spewing candy coated excrement while skipping in unison, I immediately deleted it from my desktop then put it back on my desktop just to be able to delete it again.
A computer generated crumple of trash has never sounded sweeter.

Post-Mortem

2010-06-04T19:51:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 6/4/2010

(Photograph By Weegee)

Confessions of a Killer from "The Naked City"

I guess I was ready. I guess I was as ready as I'd ever be. I'd have run if I could. If I'd have gotten the chance I'd have run. What else is there? There's always something else. So of course I would've run. I was as ready as I'd ever be, and still I would've run. It's not so bad, but I guess I understand. I understand what they were afraid of. There should've been fear. I should've been scared. There should've been fear, and anger and hate, but there wasn't. I shouldn't have been ready but I was. When there's no fear or anger or hate, that's when you're ready. When you're ready to die, you're as good as dead. When there's no fear or anger or hate you're as good as dead.
Then it was a long time. I've been dead ever since I knew I was going to die. I guess that was a long time. But that can't be true. You never really believe you're ever going to die. No one really does. You never really believe you're going to die until you're dead.

The Men I Kill

2010-06-04T19:49:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/4/2010

(Photograph By Weegee)

Confessions of a Killer from "The Naked City"

I wish I hated them, every one of them. I wish I wanted them dead. Right before I blew their brains out I wish I wanted to kill them. Maybe then I could live with myself. But I just didn't mind them, they didn't bother me, they didn't mean anything to me. Shouldn't they mean something? But I just didn't care. I should care. About them, I should care. I should hate them. There should be anger. It must have been there sometime or I wouldn't have gotten this far. I needed them, and there was still no anger or hate. Where would I be without the men I kill?
You never know when it's your time. No one ever tells you. No one tells you when you're about to die. You should know, it's only fair. It's only fair to know when you're about to die. So you can prepare, so you can be ready. It's the biggest moment of your life and you're never ready. You should get a chance to prepare. Someone should tell you so you can prepare, so you can be ready.
No one ever told them. The men I kill, they're never ready. But if they were ready? Where would I be if they were ready?

They Were Apocalypsed

2010-06-04T19:07:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 6/4/2010

Florida Keys and the Philippines: They Were Expendable (1945) and Apocalypse Now (1979)

Emotions run high during war time, and so too does sentimentality. So it's no surprise that apart from admitting John Ford's They Were Expendable offered “nothing much new, with no particular depth of feeling, much less idea” and was “otherwise uninteresting,” James Agee called it “beautiful” several times, “Ford's finest movie” and Robert Montgomery's performance as the dependable Lieutenant Brickley, “unimprovable” and “the one perfection to turn up in movies during the year.”
“Evidently [Ford and Montgomery] learned a tremendous amount through the war” was Agee's only explanation for They Were Expendable being such a revelation and for the rush of feeling he got watching as he described, “nothing but men getting on or off PT boats and other men watching them.” But then again it was 1945. So Agee's reaction was understandable if inherently contradictory. And Ford's movie was understandable too for war time. Although he was always one to mythologize the soldier.
It was another one in the bag for John Wayne playing Lieutenant “Rusty” Ryan. Donna Reed played the nurse who falls in love with “Rusty” and very charmingly. And as for Robert Montgomery, he fit well too. (He just looks like a swell guy.)
MGM supplied the money for some very impressive battle scenes shot in Florida, and the Navy supplied the PT boats. One could really mistake it for the South Pacific and that was crucial to stirring up Agee's emotions. Ford really knew how it should look having spent time overseas. (And Robert Montgomery had served as well as none other than a PT boat commander.)
It all went over really nice and easy in 1945 but in fact making They Were Expendable was in the early stages touch and go. Ford thought it was really hot and sticky in the Florida Keys. And too buggy.
But what Ford and his crew experienced in Florida on the set of They Were Expendable is nothing compared to what Francis Ford Coppola and company experienced in the Philippines making Apocalypse Now.
Apocalypse Now certainly didn't go over nice and easy. It was a hell according to Coppola and it nearly destroyed his career. It was a complete disaster from the very beginning. Horrible weather destroyed sets. Marlon Brando arrived on set fat and unprepared. Production was delayed months and the budget soared. Word got out early that Apocalypse Now wouldn't be Coppola's next masterpiece. Upon its release the reaction was mixed. Although it did share the Palme d'Or award at the Cannes film festival with The Tin Drum.
Today it remains a puzzling, if still very interesting, mess. One wonders if the jungle was ever meant for the screen. At least the debacle that was the production of Apocalypse Now made for a good warning.
Maybe for that reason Coppola's film is the essential Vietnam War movie. Brando's enormous belly and incoherent rambling dialogue and those numerous horror stories of production give the film a nightmarish aura that does the jungle justice.
There's no doubt Coppola could have made an adequate war movie off the coast of Florida – nice and easy. But it would have never been fitting of the Vietnam war. The war that was destined to be a disaster deserved a disaster of a movie.

Casablanca (1942)

2010-04-06T20:49:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen

Classic lines are mostly schlock, almost ninety percent corn syrup. An initial cringe always comes first upon hearing one of these gems, then a chuckle – what were they thinking? I'd say about half of these lines are only famous for being so unspeakably bad. They're like a screenwriters' blooper reel.
In the movie sporting easily the most memorable lines, with Gone with the Wind a close second, a doozy lurks around every corner. It's a wonder Ingrid Bergman telling Humphrey Bogart, “From now on you'll have to do the thinking for the both of us, dear,” didn't make AFI's 100 quotes list. That one always brought tears to my eyes.
So Casablanca is one part cheap melodrama, and sometimes a bland one at that. Thankfully that isn't all it has going for it. It is also a Bogart and Bergman picture, and they're always a pleasure. In this case Ingrid Bergman is especially sweet as Ilsa, although Bogart as Rick is still who I first remember. And there's also a great supporting cast, one of the best I've been told. I was told right: Paul Henreid as Victor Laszlo, Claude Rains, Sydney Greenstreet, Dooley Wilson as Sam, Peter Lorre (from M), Marcel Dalio (from The Rules of the Game) and many others.
The love triangle of Rick, Ilsa and Victor is Academy stamped and approved: Best Picture, Director and Screenplay. She showed up at his gin joint uninvited, and with a husband of all things. Sam played they're song, “As Time Goes By.” They cried and drank, Rick for the first time in a long time, and finally they made up. Just in time for him to let her go. Michael Curtiz milked the flashbacks, and good for him. Without them Ilsa is nothing but Rick's floozy.
So Casablanca is a classic, an American classic. And yet in many ways it is starkly European, with Bergman, Henreid, Rains, Greenstreet, Conrad Veidt, Lorre and Dalio contributing to a French café visual spunk.
Humphrey Bogart is the one American, and still the center of the film. He's our hero, and to some extent our reflection, a symbol of our country. At first he's a stubborn rogue with a my-way-or-the-curb mentality. And then, when it suits him, a noble savior. Casablanca peddles this kind of patriotic sentimentality with enthusiasm. And sure as the Academy ate it up, so did we, either with a handkerchief or a popcorn box at our side.
So above all Casablanca is a movie for 1942 and war time, especially when the war is just - when we as Americans can all stop, at least for the moment, acting like stubborn rogues and play the noble savior. And Rick is our embodiment. He's our hero. In fact, we're our hero. Casablanca is for us and about us and it's just like us to think so.
So get your popcorn or your handkerchiefs ready, “Round up the usual suspects,” “We'll always have Paris,” and why not, play it again.

Color Noir

2010-03-24T12:39:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 3/24/2010

Watching the end of Roman Polanski's new movie The Ghost Writer this past weekend, seeing a car abruptly accelerate as our ghost crosses the street carrying a 600 page manuscript, suddenly hearing screeching brakes, seeing nothing but an empty street then a flurry of papers scattering in the wind, I was immediately reminded of Chinatown. In particular its ending, seeing the two police detectives fire at Mrs. Mulwray's car then hearing the sound of the car horn.
It kept beeping and beeping. Finally we were told it was all just Chinatown. But what do I ask is it today? Is it Cape Cod, Tony Blair and George Bush, the American government and the CIA, all of which seemed to play a part in killing our ghost?
Maybe Polanski is living in the past. With Chinatown was it really Nixon, the Vietnam war, the assassination of JFK...? Is he living in our country's past? The ending to Chinatown could be seen as a reflection of the times - like Bonnie and Clyde bouncing about to the dozens of bullets piercing their skin, Michael Corleone closing the door on his wife, and Howard Beale being killed for having lousy ratings all rolled-up into one.
Or is it instead that Polanski is still dragging around his own checkered past? And his movies are a reflection of his tainted view of the world. With the personal tragedies he's suffered can we even blame him?
Whether it be Polanski's inner demons or a sign of overall disillusionment with government in America during the late 1960's and early 70's, it is important to note that Chinatown wasn't always supposed to have such a bleak ending. Robert Towne, who wrote the screenplay, originally intended to end the movie with Jake killing the sadistic Noah Cross then helping Mrs. Mulwray escape to Mexico with her daughter. It was in fact Roman Polanski who suggested the change in ending – as with The Ghost Writer, Rosemary's Baby, or any other he had to add his ghoulish macabre touch.
Then again that's crucial to its charm – its tawny varnished, morbid, mythic lyricism. Chinatown will always be an essential film noir of the color age.
Times sure change fast. At one point not long before Chinatown was released morbid film noirs were black and white, and blood a dark gray. They usually ended with the good guys and bad guys aligned, fitting the “crime doesn't pay” message. Another classic The Big Sleep might be an example of this. However can you even dare to say Howard Hawks' film is about good guys and bad guys? Is there really anything important on the screen but Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall's steaming chemistry? The Big Sleep is just an extension of To Have and Have Not spiced up by Raymond Chandlers' feel for the burlesque and salacious and biting dialogue by an all-star cast of writers – William Faulkner, Leigh Brackett and Jules Furthman. Who among even Chandler himself can shuffle the plot enough to differentiate the good from the bad – as long as Bogart and Bacall are the last ones left standing, as Hawks probably thought to himself when he made the film.
Can you imagine Bogart as Philip Marlowe tussling with Faye Dunaway's Evelyn Mulwray or Jack Nicholson's Jake Gittes with Lauren Bacall and the thumb sucking Carmen (Martha Vickers)? I'm sure they could both hold their own. Who knows, maybe Bogey could have given Polanski his first film with a happy ending.

Notes on Up (2009)

2010-03-05T16:22:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen 3/5/2010

I watched Up and I must say I was a little disappointed. Sure it had some nice effects, the flying house makes for a nice visual. But overall it seemed bogged down by kid-movie cliches. The characters, the voices, the plot devices and even much of the humor felt more in the DreamWorks variety - I mean talking dog jokes, please. And the opening montage about the old guys life, which probably got a lot praise from critics, stole its view of marriage from a hallmark card. I think any series of colorful "wondrous" images cut together and put to classical music by Pixar will automatically be called brilliant by critics.

Dreams of Death

2010-03-05T15:44:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen 3/5/2010 (Photograph by Weegee)

Confessions of a Killer from "The Naked City"

The streets were rough in those days, but aren't they always. That's just one of those things people say. Only until you've licked the pavement do you know it's true.
I never thought it would end this way: lying in a pool of my own blood, eating cement, gunned down by a cop. Death, sure I saw it coming, and not of natural causes. I wasn't that thick. I wasn't one of those hot-shit hit-men, reckless punks who think they're in the wild west. But not by a cop, never aced by a dirty pig. What a horrible way to go. I always wished a boss ordered my death. That's more dignified.
I had it all mapped-out in my head, like a teenage girl planning her wedding. I would start out committing a few petty crimes: hold up a liquor store, a drug store. Maybe I'd meet a few hoods along the way. I knew the right places to hang out. Eventually I might drive for a bank job. I'd do some time, sure. The pen's where you meet the big shots. To earn the mob's respect I'd have to bump off some middle-ranking hood – just enough to get their attention. Then I'd take one in the back.
Everyone remembers you if you're killed by the mob. I tried my best, made it pretty far. Blackmail, that's where I went wrong – pinned the wrong people in a corner, the wrong cops. The DA always told me I'd end up a stain on the asphalt – called me “scum.” I hate that I proved him right. He's probably standing over my body right now, shaking his head. It makes me sick. He's one of those high-and-mighty pricks who talks about “cleaning-up the streets.”
Standing over my body, I bet he thinks the streets are cleaner now that I'm dead. He doesn't know the half of it. I've tasted them, they're filthy.

Shutter Island (2010)

2010-03-01T14:11:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen 3/1/2010

Martin Scorsese's new film Shutter Island is like a great jumble or crossword from the newspaper: fun to twiddle over while waiting for your flight at the airport. And for at least the first hour-and-a-half to two hours it was hard to put down. But as with all puzzles the solution pales in comparison to the fun of unscrambling. Although the solution is quite tantalizing. (When it's finally time to board I always peak at the up-side-down fine print on the jumble.) Reading the Dennis Lehane novel that inspired the movie it must be almost impossible to resist flipping to the final chapter.
Shutter Island certainly has all the elements of a great spellbinder. Scribbled notes, misnomers and anagrams turn our brain to mush. The story twists and turns with seemingly no regard for retracing its steps. And what better setting for a mind-bender than an asylum for the criminally insane. Ghostly crazies creep around ward A, whispering to themselves. In ward C scarred and battered faced maniacs, some with body parts held together by what look like zippers, dangle their arms through cell bars, grasping at air. Muffled screams and the thumps and screeches of the soundtrack underline the tension.
To open we see two U.S. Marshals, Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo), investigating the disappearance of a convicted killer riding a ferry. From the thick fog that covers the strangely 2D looking Boston Harbor we know there's something odd in the works on Shutter Island.
Deputy Warden McPherson (John Carrol Lynch) greets the marshals at the shore with few words and a skeptical look in his eyes. At the gate when McPherson asks for the marshals' firearms Chuck has trouble getting his gun out of his holster – the first little piece of the puzzle to put in our memory bank. The marshals meet the head Doc John Cawley (played by Sir Ben Kingsley) who shows them to the escaped “patient” Rachel Solando's room. Under a broken floor board Teddy finds a note that says “Who is 67” - another puzzle piece, this one a corner.
A white haired German doctor played by Max Von Sydow gives us chills. A hurricane hits Shutter Island leaving the marshals stranded in a cemetery. From there as the story unfolds it becomes apparent that Teddy has fallen into an elaborate trap. We learn Daniels has his own agenda aside from finding Rachel Solando. He suspects Shutter Island is not just an asylum for the criminally insane but a secret government laboratory for gruesome psychological experimentation, and he's determined to prove it. But it seems the doctors and the warden are always one step ahead of him.
Questions in our mind mount. Although the movie is almost half finished our puzzle seems barely started, as if we had a mix of pieces from two different puzzles. What are we to make of Teddy's flashbacks of storming Dachau – numerous close-ups of frozen emaciated corpses seem gratuitous – as well as dreams of his late wife smoldering into ash? Were these flashbacks and dreams along with strange conversations actually hallucinations caused by a spiked aspirin or cigarette? Is Teddy in fact slowly going insane?
A vital document Teddy refuses to acknowledge and a cigarette delicately placed at the edge of a cliff – two more pieces to the puzzle which only add to our confusion. The most compelling question becomes how is this possibly going to end? Only in hindsight did it seem possible. Surprisingly almost all loose ends are tied. I can say at least the end is logically satisfying. Unfortunately the fun of the whirlwind dissipates. Teddy finds himself blabbing on and on through fire in a cave, wasting a dozen matches to light a conversation in a prison cell, then finally storming ward B, the infamous lighthouse, and learning the truth from Dr. Cawley. I guess the game has to end somehow.

Pickup on South Street (1953)

2010-02-11T19:22:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen 2/11/10

The train rocks and Skip McCoy moves closer. He's picked his target: a young woman with a surprise waiting for him. A sea of people force his body up against hers. As the train starts to move again he slips his hands down by her waist, pretending to hold open a newspaper. One sway of the train and he's unfastened her purse. Two government agents stand maybe ten feet away, their eyes fixed on his every move. His fingers delicately sift through a handkerchief, some makeup, then pluck out her wallet. As the train comes to a stop he bumps her closing her purse then rushes off to find out how big he's scored.
Skip McCoy (Richard Widmark) must be dim. He's definitely backward. Why if he's a “three time loser” would he risk getting caught a fourth time with his hand down a woman's purse and by state law guarantee himself life behind bars?
The simple answer given by Pickup on South Street and most film noir, crime genre movies is that he just doesn't know any better. Once a “two-bit canon,” always a two-bit canon as Captain Dan Tiger (Murvyn Vye) would say. In the world of gangs, hoods, mugs and stoolies there's no turning back. And as much as that may sound like a hell for the criminals who find themselves down the wrong path, the same movies routinely finish them off with a moral tongue lashing.
Perfect for director Samuel Fuller that such a routine exists. Fuller is an iconoclast, a maverick, a cynic if there ever was one. I must admit he is a favorite. His willingness to shock and appall is refreshing. Fuller is a master of the underground, a quintessential termite-filmmaker. And during the 50's the former tabloid journalist made a series of no-fluff B-classics.
His filmography could only have been made in pulp heaven: a murder mystery at a mental hospital (Shock Corridor); a prostitute fleeing the big city to the suburbs and finding herself handcuffed by a kind of man much worse than a pimp, a child molester (The Naked Kiss); a landowner (played by Barbara Stanwyck) with her forty body guards at her back and a U.S. Marshal finding they love the click of the trigger, and BANG of their pistol more than they care for each other (Forty Guns). And on top of that, no description of Fuller's pulp legend is complete without mentioning one simply nutty opening voice over - as a man in pajamas chases a toddler and a puppy through a destroyed city we hear, “In this ravaged city where people are starving, all the dogs have been eaten except one” (China Gate). Writing these descriptions I can't help but giggle.
It's true, any thought of sensitivity has never stood in Samuel Fuller's way. To call him “heavy-handed,” “over-the-top,” “primitive” or merely “fast, flashy, and essential empty minded” (as Pauline Kael did) would be an understatement. Fuller's movies can get downright absurd, and their violence bludgeoning. I prefer Manny Farber's description of Fuller: the first director to attempt “poetic purity” through “unlimited sadism, done candidly and close up.”
A convention commonly disregarded in Fuller movies is that the good eventually defeats the bad. Or, that the bad sooner or later get their comeuppance. In a Fuller movie like Pickup on South Street the bad don't necessarily defeat the good. Instead the bad – McCoy, a pickpocket, Candy (Jean Peters), a prostitute, and Moe (played fantastically by Thelma Ritter), a police informant – defeat those even worse – Commies.
Fuller prefers the “alternate path” not as a success story, where turning to crime is rewarded, but as a vehicle for a thrill ride and occasionally a message. No matter if that message is sometimes simple-minded or heavy-handed. Along with his best B-movies that sport hilarious tag lines, every so often Fuller delivers a gem, Pickup on South Street certainly being one.

Adam's Rib (1949)

2010-01-17T11:50:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen January 17, 2010

It was convenient for director George Cukor and particularly for writing duo Ruth Gordon and Garson Kanin, that they had a sweet couple in Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy to play with. No amount of marital chirp would annoy us with these two. They're perfect leads for a light and wonderful comedy: warm, lovable, and also intelligent enough to convey a serious message. But I still wonder if Adam's Rib is a statement first and a comedy second or vice versa.
Gordon and Kanin certainly came up with the most logical set up to prove women are equal to men. Hepburn as Amanda Bonner and Tracy as Adam Bonner are a marriage made in courtroom heaven. She's a defense attorney and he's a prosecuting attorney. He believes in justice. She believes in equality. With those values, no matter what happens, they're both winners. And is there a setting more reasonable, more civilized, or more American then a courtroom? Perfect that women's equality would be decided by a judge and jury.
At first Amanda seems to be a stereotypical wife. In her silk nightgown, very dutifully, she serves Adam breakfast in bed. But just as she begins to smooch-up to her husband, his grumpy reaction gets her blood boiling. Terrific that a case came along Amanda thought perfect to prove a point. The very innocent and desperate looking Doris Attinger (Judy Holliday) shot her cheating husband Warren (Tom Ewell) after catching him in the act, but the fact that she trembled with fear, closed her eyes and turned away just as she pulled the trigger proves she didn't mean it. And she says she was just trying to scare him. Even more terrific that this very case fell into Adam's lap.
But who would make the better argument? I was very interested to see. Given the circumstances it seemed to be an open and shut case. I wondered how Amanda would possibly create suspense leading to the verdict. So when Adam and Amanda's daily arguments finally made the courtroom I was thoroughly disappointed.
Screwball comedy or not, Adam proves himself an absurdly incompetent attorney. And really Amanda isn't any better. Her argument for why Doris should be acquitted assumes men frequently get away with shooting their cheating wives. Do they? She claims they were only trying to protect their home, and so was Doris when she shot her spouse. Picture the defendant as a man, she pleaded to the jury, then what would your verdict be? I did and wasn't convinced.
However Adam's Rib still has its moments. Hepburn and Tracy are funny here. Certainly Judy Holliday and even Tom Ewell and Jean Hagen as Ewell's mistress in supporting roles are exceptional. It's unfortunate they're rarely given anything but easy gags. Gordon and Kanin write a pretty good comedy but a weak, at best, statement.
So they fought, they bickered, they patted each other on the bum and a few times it got raucous. A few times it got personal. But really, it never went that far. It was always all in fun. And in the end the man, Spencer Tracy, won the battle. But for a while, the woman, Katherine Hepburn, got the better of him. Long enough, I guess, for 1949 to earn Adam's Rib a brief mention for being “ahead of its time.” Some went as far as to call it “pioneering.”
It seems all that matters is that they had a battle, Hepburn even put up a fight. She wasn't a doll, she was a woman, a woman that deserved as much respect as Spencer Tracy. So she didn't win and didn't even really pack much of a profound or though-provoking punch, but for once a woman had made her way into the ring. I hope you're satisfied.

Notes on Criticism

2009-12-31T12:19:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen 12/31/09

When I think of my dream job, I think of Pauline Kael describing in her fifth book Reeling, a trip she took to the Broadway area with a young critic to see a hard-core movie. She describes the small theater, the crowd full of men, the live show that accompanied the movie – a young girl, around 17 or 18 doing a strip and then a dance naked. She describes the girl's eyes scaling the audience with a look of hatred, then staring at her. She describes being overcome by a feeling similar to one she got while watching many recent movies, those as she put it with a “mixture of nostalgia and parody” and a nihilistic atmosphere, as if “everything had turned to dung, oneself included.”
There's something about all this that I love. Maybe it's that the critic sees past the popular, the marketing, the stars, and the glittering lights. The critic can point out the excellence in a small or all but forgotten film, and at the same time point out when the movies have turned to dung. And maybe in some small way the critic makes film better.
I used to just watch movies, hundreds and hundreds. But it wasn't until I starting reading great criticism by my favorites, like Kael, Farber and Ferguson, Agee and Sarris, that I came to appreciate movies as trash and art, and directors as auteurists, frauds and hacks. I worry that with the demise of newspapers and magazines, where my favorite critics worked, that my generation won't benefit from great criticism.

Bad Lieutenant (1992)

2009-12-15T12:48:00.000-08:00

Eric Jessen 12/15/09
It's easy to spot a movie with prize-worthy realism by its painstakingly slow pace, one disturbing grunt-filled sex scene, and your almost certain boredom or unbearable discomfort.
Another feature of movies with pure realism is overly mechanical and deliberate acting. So in Bad Lieutenant when Harvey Keitel started weeping uncontrollably every other scene, I knew director Abel Ferrara had executed something particularly extraordinary.
Much of Bad Lieutenant is a worthy crime drama for 1950's Italian cinema (though just as unwatchable as Open City and other neorealism "masterpieces"). But rather than having an easy charm and a poetic quality that pre 8 1/2 Federico Fellini would be proud of, Bad Lieutenant peddles a crude thrown-together, where-have-you-been-God type of meaning-making. After the masturbation scene (which is in-your-face realism), and the constant Catholic-guilt spewing, I'll award Bad Lieutenant "most realistically awful experience of the week."

Their Merry Romance

2009-12-06T15:36:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen 12/6/09

A "merry romance," a "screen feast," which movie comes to mind: Frank Capra's It Happened One Night or Howard Hawks' His Girl Friday?
A Hawksian movie is rarely merry, but often a feast. It's hard to resist the easy charm of Capra's It Happened One Night: with Clark Gable, as a boozing recently fired reported Peter Warne and Claudette Colbert as the helpless heiress Ellen Andrews. Capra has a flair for the romantic and merry (It's a Wonderful Life and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington are great examples). But I have a hard time describing any of his movies as a feast. (I take my cues from Manny Farber, the painter and critic who points out, "the only subtle thing about this conventionalist is that, despite his folksy, emotion-packed fables, Frank Capra is strictly a mechanic, stubbornly unaware of the ambiguities that ride his shallow images.") But as lightly enjoyable as is It Happened One Night, Howard Hawks' His Girl Friday is raucous fun. Each scene is layered with gags, no joke goes uninterrupted by another, and as much as I love Gable and Colbert, Cary Grant as Walter Burns and Rosalind Russell as Hildy Johnson are just as wonderful. So His Girl Friday definitely deserves such compliments: certainly a feast and merry, I guess.
Both It Happened One Night and His Girl Friday are deserving of praise. So why then was the reaction to the two movies markedly different? It Happened One Night, despite poor early returns in the theaters, went on to become a huge hit, the biggest ever up to that point for Columbia Pictures. Gable feigning street smarts and peevishly nagging Colbert, and Colbert acting like a snobbish prude while flashing half a calf at the most opportune time, glad to let him - this purportedly quintessential screwball comedy melted Great Depression era hearts. It captured all the major Academy awards (Best Picture, Director, Actor, Actress and Writing), a feat unmatched until One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It catapulted Frank Capra into the stratosphere of mainstream success (although to the eventual disdain of highbrow critics). On the other hand, His Girl Friday had only moderate success, and was pooh-poohed by the New York Times and the usually reliable Otis Ferguson.
I wonder if in a time of the Hays Code (separate beds and no "excessive or lustful kissing") the vastly different portrayal of women in the two movies had anything to do with their success. Mid 1930's audiences ate up the down and out reporter barking orders at the overly pampered débutante. It Happened One Night tickled their fancies for the underdog, a spontaneous elopement, and a shirtless Clark Gable. The fact that Gable's character loved to hear himself holler and refused to give Colbert's character an ounce of respect never crossed their minds. By 1940 I guess they were still not ready to see Rosalind Russell jostling with Cary Grant as one of the guys.
But to understand fully why His Girl Friday was unsuccessful compared to It Happened One Night, it is important to note that His Girl Friday was a remake of the critics and consumer's darling, The Front Page. Maybe audiences were just annoyed with the regurgitation of a favorite. (I'm dreading the rumored upcoming remake of The Third Man staring Leonardo Dicaprio.) Although, His Girl Friday is not exactly like the original: the Hildy Johnson character was a man in The Front Page, and Walter Burns was trying to prevent him from leaving the paper to get married. In 1940 critics and audiences may have seen His Girl Friday as the tarnishing, or even feminization of a classic. Frank S. Nugent of the New York Times began his review of His Girl Friday by saying, "They've replated The Front Page again, have slapped His Girl Friday on the masthead and are running it off at the Music Hall as a special women's edition." Do you detect a hint of bitterness? Did the sourness in his words stem from some kind of Freudian women-envy or did he just love The Front Page that much? If only Roz's Hildy had left Bruce (Ralph Bellamy) at the altar to run away with Walter. But could you ever see her in a wedding gown?

Message Cinema I

2009-11-08T15:21:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen 11/8/09

Rifle through your collection of movie books, past “A” for Agee, “F” for Farber and Ferguson, and “K” for Kael, all the way down to “S” for Sarris. Thumb past Confessions of a Cultist and pull out Directors and Directions. (Once known as “The Bible,” this quintessential guide famously categorizes directors from the “Pantheon” to “Make Way for the Clowns!”) Flip past, (for now), the “Pantheon,” the “Far Side of Paradise,” “Expressive Esoterica,” “Fringe Benefits,” and “Strained Seriousness.” Flip all the way down to the wasteland of the “Miscellany.” Who of all directors, in such company as Hubert Cornfield, John Brahm and Stuart Heisler, directors with such credits as Plunder Road, Hot Rods from Hell and The Biscuit Eater, would author Andrew Sarris call “the most extreme example of message cinema?” Who else, no matter what company, but Stanley Kramer?
With such gems as The Defiant Ones, which dared to remind us that black people and white people can get along, and Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, which officially married the two races (with permission from their parents of course), Stanley Kramer's movie world became the one to learn from. In a Kramer movie a message was never easier to understand, and even better for the audience, delivered in a more entertaining way. So why then is Kramer in Sarris' doghouse? He deserves at least “Fringe Benefits,” or considering that that group includes Bunuel, Eisenstein, Antonioni, Polanski and Pabst, maybe instead, “Lightly Likable.” I wonder if when Directors and Directions was written, just after Guess Who's Coming to Dinner was released, some of the worst of Kramer left a bad taste in Sarris' mouth. Katharine Hepburn's incessant tear-jerking, and Spencer Tracy's bemoaning goodbye speech that seems to never end, is enough to turn your stomach.
But that shouldn't taint Kramer's career. He's made plenty of movies to look back fondly on. Sarris couldn't have forgotten.......Well, now that I think about it, just about every Kramer movie goes overboard. Inherit the Wind may also have been on Sarris' mind. And maybe Judgment at Nuremberg too. Few could handle, (other than the Academy), Inherit the Wind and Judgment at Nuremberg's bludgeon of history with crude miscasting and sensationalized overacting.
Okay, so Kramer lacked subtlety, but what's a good message movie without a little heavy-handedness? Can you even call it a “message movie” if it lacks overwrought, overblown dramatization of historically or socially relevant events? (Frost/Nixon and Ron Howard's frantic cutting comes to mind.) Can you even call it a “message movie” if it lacks box-office shrewd casting? (Everyone in the business knows an audience doesn't listen to a message unless it comes from a star.) Can it possibly be a good message movie if the audience isn't completely sure where the movie stands, which are the good guys and which are the bad?

(For further reading on Message Cinema, continue to "Message Cinema II.")

Message Cinema II

2009-11-08T15:11:00.000-08:00

By Eric Jessen 11/8/09

So a Kramer movie might be a little overly simplistic, but what's so great about these “Pantheon” directors? What makes them so special? Subtle and nuanced, but boring as hell, I would guess. Let's pull back out Sarris' obviously pretentious Directors and Directions. Who's in this “Pantheon?” Welles, Renoir, Murnau, Ophuls – too artsy. Lang, Keaton, Hitchcock, Hawks – merely genre hacks. Ah, how about John Ford? I know he's made a message movie or two – with prize worthy subtlety and creativity, I bet. There's The Grapes of Wrath, Stagecoach, Young Mr. Lincoln and then later The Searchers. You might call those message movies. Well, Young Mr. Lincoln is more of a “hero movie,” so that's out. And we must avoid holding the now horribly stale Grapes of Wrath against Ford, so that's also out.
That leaves The Searchers and Stagecoach. You could call both genre films. Stagecoach was the western genre's savior while it was in transition from silent to sound. And although it was not highly praised when it was released, many modern movie junkies argue The Searchers is the greatest of all westerns. (I prefer The Wild Bunch, to let you know I'm in the Kael rather than Sarris camp.) It jumped into the Sight and Sound and AFI list mix after directors like Martin Scorsese and Sergio Leone, once movie junkies themselves, noted The Searchers as greatly influencing them. But for the sake of this discussion let's consider the two, “message movies.” Under the many message movie categories such as women's rights, drugs, and sex, The Searchers would fall under the race category and Stagecoach, the class category. (Let it be known, I despise categorizing movies, but because I am thoroughly ensconced in a Sarris mode, I can't help but continue.)
As so called race movies go, The Searchers is definitely among the most interesting and unique. As opposed to any of the Kramer movies and Stagecoach, you might find yourself wanting to watch The Searchers a second or even a third time, not because it's particularly entertaining, but because it has an added element of mystery. With The Searchers there are still questions left to ask. But it's important to note, they are questions we're eager to mull over, as opposed to ones that annoy us throughout. While watching “Guess” I was constantly irritated wondering, why if Joey and the Doctor's love is so strong, do they need their parents permission? And why is it so darn important that Joey's parents decide by the end of the night? What comes to mind is that these seemingly arbitrary constraints are necessary not for the sake of clarifying a message, but for the sake of suspense and to perfectly lead into Tracy's monologue. During that final speech, so not to ruin the moment, when Joey learns her fiancé was ready to back out of their marriage if her parents disapproved, her only response is to say, “Well, that's funny.”
As opposed to “Guess,” in The Searchers there is always enough gray area to heighten our interest, but not so much that we are left bewildered. It's never clear until the very end whether John Wayne's Ethan Edwards is good or bad, racist or not. Ethan is a big wild bully, shooting out the eyes of a Comanche corpse, and scalping Scar, but we get the sense as he looks fondly at the horizon, as he lifts Debbie above his head then carries her in his arms, and how he holds on to his Confederate ideals, that Ethan is also a hopeless romantic. All of that considered, The Searchers deserves the probably overused but still much sought after adjectives, “subtle” and “nuanced.”
But what about Stagecoach? Those two adjectives don't immediately come to mind. Stagecoach seems on second, third or however many viewings in the Kramer vein. Ford makes it fairly easy on us. The drunk, Doc Boone (Thomas Mitchell), the prostitute, Dallas (Claire Trevor), and the criminal, Ringo (John Wayne), of the lower class are to be admired. The pregnant wife of a Cavalryman (Louise Platt) and the gambler (John Carradine) are misguided in their snickering at the prostitute. And as always, the banker, Henry Gatewood (Berton Churchill), is a fat, sniveling backstabbing thief. We know from the start it's a class movie, and we know immediately who Ford favors. So it's not a champion of subtle message-making, but it does make significant strides. With the help of its actors who settle into their roles perfectly, and the great stunt work of Yakima Canutt who jumps from horse to horse then lets a row of horses and the coach trample him, Stagecoach is an especially likable and enjoyable movie. And Ford, who I would say is deserving of “Pantheon” status, makes it work naturally.
So I guess the point here is that message movies are not hard to come by, especially ones as bloated as Kramer's. But good message movies are: message movies that make their point without shoving it down our throat. And as much as I would like to put down Andrew Sarris' auteur theory and his rigid categorizing, with Kramer and Ford he was definitely on to something. It's easy for any viewer, even if they watch Guess Who's Coming to Dinner for two minutes and Stagecoach for one, to tell the difference between a Ford and a Kramer movie, or a Cornfield and a Bergman, or a Brahm and a Lubitsch.
It's a shame that message movies from the directors at the “Pantheon” or “Far Side of Paradise” level seem to take a back seat to those in the Kramer message-mongering mold. It is for that reason, “message movie” remains an insult in my word bank.

The Searchers (1956)

2009-10-28T13:48:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 10/28/09

Somewhere in John Wayne's awkward delivery, in Scar's splotchy makeup, in the tumbleweed of Monument Valley, The Searchers gets its enigmatic quality. It's sustained through every fizzle and every crescendo. Each scene is cluttered with failed attempts at humor, the most tiresome being when Marty (Jeffrey Hunter) fights for Laurie (Vera Miles) on her wedding night -- actually just about every scene with Laurie is clutter, and dare I say I found Mose (Hank Warden) and his rocking chair annoying. And how absurd is Natalie Wood's Debbie looking more prim than ever as a scalp scraping Comanche? Really, much of The Searchers is not even all that enjoyable. Yet, when John Wayne as Ethan Edwards is framed in the doorway at the end, leaning to the side like a cowboy cardboard cutout, and then stumbling down the porch steps in front of the ever-expansive valley, The Searchers was destined for legendary status. In that final scene, we wonder what Ethan will possibly do with himself now that he's finished searching for Debbie. We wonder where he will wander to next. Then the door blows shut, and we know we'll never find out. The Searchers had captured the mystery, the wonder possible in movies.
Although The Searchers wasn't nominated for any Academy awards when it was released, by the 1970's it was already a favorite among young directors. By 2007, it was voted the 12th greatest American movie by AFI. Martin Scorsese, Sergio Leone and others fell in love with The Searchers and particularly Ethan: the obsessive, erratic journeyman and the combustible racist. They loved the ambiguity of Ethan. What made him hate Comanches? And how does he know so much about them? Why doesn't he kill Debbie like he said he would?

(See "The Defiant Ones" review for more on "The Searchers")

The Defiant Ones (1958)

2009-10-28T13:40:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 10/28/09

Just two years after The Searchers was released, Stanley Kramer, Hollywood's most socially conscious director released The Defiant Ones. As much as it feels weird to see these two titles in the same sentence, they make for an interesting comparison. Considering The Searchers in the most narrow way possible, you could say both of these movies are about race. The Defiant Ones is about race in the most simplistic way: two prisoners chained together, one white and one black, escape their not-so-armored bus -- forced to hitch their way through Lynchdale and Hickville in an attempt to reach the railroads to freedom. Other than the race topic, the two movies are almost completely different. Unlike The Searchers, The Defiant Ones was nominated for numerous Academy awards including Best Picture. On the other hand, it has nearly been forgotten since.
With The Defiant Ones, and most Kramer movies (Inherit the Wind, Judgment at Nuremberg, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner), every inch of frame, every actor and actress looks just a little too slick, too stagy. Watching Tony Curtis pretending to be the racist, “Joker,” I almost broke out laughing: his Hollywood liberalism bursting out his seams, oozing out his smirk. I couldn't help but think Tony Curtis was simply too much of a pretty boy to play a racist. With The Defiant Ones, Curtis, Kramer and company's intentions are too apparent.
The Searchers is a more believable portrayal of race because there will aways be part of me that wonders whether John Ford and John Wayne thought they were making just another western. In The Defiant Ones, it's black vs white – pretty simple. But in The Searchers Ethan (white) is pitted against the common foe of westerns -- Indians. As opposed to Curtis' “Joker,” Wayne's Ethan is a much more believable racist because there will always be part of me that wonders if Ethan's prejudices are Wayne's. Doesn't Wayne seem like the type who might think like Ethan?
The essential difference between The Searchers and The Defiant Ones, and The Searchers and many other mainstream Hollywood movies is that with The Searchers, for many of my questions there is not one clear answer.

Gone with the Wind (1939)

2009-10-12T09:52:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 10/10/09

Oh, how time heals all wounds. All of a sudden by 1939 D. W. Griffith was a trendy hack and Victor Fleming (with the help of George Cukor, Sam Wood and probably a few others) was the business' greatest artist and craftsman. From the ghastly racism of Griffith's 1915 epic, The Birth of a Nation, to Fleming and company's so called work of truth and genius, Gone with the Wind, Hollywood had apparently learned its lesson. No longer would black people be portrayed as rabid dogs, foaming at the mouth over white women, or imbecile beasts. They said with GWTW, everything had changed. Black people were finally portrayed honestly. They were finally shown in their true form: the dignified, no-nonsense maid, the obedient, blubber-lipped houseman, and the chirping midwife, all happily whistling Dixie, content with the servant's life. With a bow from the movers and shakers (Selznick, MGM and the Academy) and a loud “Your welcome,” Hollywood expected a pat on the back. And in 1939 they got what wanted. But unfortunately for them, everyone has done some rethinking.
Looking back at both “Birth” and GWTW, it is clear little had changed. No wound had healed. The scar on Hollywood and all of America for that matter, was still evident. From 1915 to 1939, Hollywood had just picked away a big ugly scab and replaced it with another. In some ways, I think the depiction of black people and the Civil War era South is more troubling in GWTW than in “Birth.”
The black characters in GWTW were actually played by black people. That was a start. This cannot be said for “Birth.” And at least with Mammy (Hattie McDaniel), they were dignified. And in the case Prissy (Butterfly McQueen) and Pork (Oscar Polk), they were slightly more lovable then laughable. The black characters in “Birth” compared to those in GWTW were, as Globe critic Ty Burr might say, aggressively stupid rather than acceptably dumb. Where GWTW really allies itself with “Birth” is in its message. Both seem to want the same thing for black people: to be forever white people's help. They both strongly advocate for the traditions of the old South, just in different ways. “Birth” puts its interpretation (falsification) of the Civil War and Reconstruction and its opinion of slavery in full view, whereas GWTW dances around the issue. But considering its nostalgic glorification of Tara, and the plantations yearly ball - girls in poofy dresses frolicking around the expansive garden, with all the assistance in the world from Mammy, Pork and Prissy they could ever want - the point is made by omission.
So what's infuriating and most troubling about GWTW is that it was extremely successful. Stupidity and wrongheadedness were slipped right past us more effectively then ever. And how? By turning the schmaltz-o-meter up to eleven. We all got wrapped-up in its first class melodrama. The four million dollars (the biggest budget to date) spent on bright, gleaming Technicolor, thousands of extras playing dead, and one big smoldering set mesmerized us. GWTW features a story for the ages (adapted from the novel): a sweeping tale of lovers crossing paths at simply the wrong time. It still wows today. And who can forget such great performances. The four mil was also well spent on the perfect “damn,” dame and dude. Vivien Leigh as Scarlet O'Hara looks most bratty, neurotic, and spunky. Clark Gable appears at home playing the suave drunkard Rhett Butler. And the “damn” is a memorable cherry on top. These three d's seem to hold GWTW together and make it quite enjoyable (though I suggest spreading it out over two nights). And the ensemble directing job is not half bad at all. Characters are knocked off with the utmost precision, each death more unexpected then the last, and each more gut wrenching. When Gerald O'Hara (Thomas Michell) and Bonny Blue Butler (Cammie King) are flung off their horses, I picture them catapulted to the heavens. When Melanie (Olivia de Havilland) passes her spirit rises and sprouts beautiful white feathered wings. When Scarlet wanders off into the mist near the end, it's Melanie's spirit that guides her. GWTW, the overwrought melodrama, will endure. But like “Birth,” it will always have that irremovable blemish: its message.

La Chinoise (1967)

2009-09-27T09:39:00.001-07:00

By Eric Jessen 9/26/09

La Chinoise is a wonderful mockery of 60's college educated pop-tweens, featuring director Jean-Luc Godard's trademark zany bits of anti-American, anti-capitalist jest and a rapid-fire pace. But after watching about the first ten minutes, it seemed as though Godard had no intention of letting me catch up, or letting me in on the gag. Allusions to poetry, movies and history clutter the dialogue. My head nearly exploded trying to unscramble Shakespeare, Sade, and Kafka's “Metamorphosis,” Murnau, Eisenstein and Johnny Guitar, and Mao, Che and Stalin. Much of La Chinoise is a string of confusion and frustration. Godard sprints through his script (based loosely on Dostoyevsky's novel “The Possessed”) seemingly leaving ideas hanging in bunches. But what separates La Chinoise from other of Godard's political films, is that it's not mean spirited. And near the end, Godard pauses, allowing me to recollect and gather my senses. In retrospect, La Chinoise has remarkable foresight.
Godard shows a genuine love for and great understanding of 19-20ish college educated kids who fancy themselves new-wave communists, flirting with terrorism over summer break. These prim looking dolls (usually Anna Karina, in this case Anne Wiazemsky, Juliet Berto and Jean-Pierre Leaude) scamper around planning bombings and assassinations, playing revolutionaries: Juliet Berto crouches behind a wall of Mao's “little red books,” having transformed her radio into a machine gun. In the previous scene, she wears a rice-paddy hat as cardboard toy planes flutter over her head. And when these recreational Marxists talk socialism, philosophy, and the Vietnam War they clearly have absolutely no idea what they're saying. They are only pretending, criticizing LBJ as a sort of hip new jargon.
For one of the five “Marxist Leninist” revolutionaries, Veronique (Anne Wiazemsky, the girl with the donkey in Bresson's “Balthazar”), holding a cigarette gently between her fingers, dangling it in front of her mouth, slouching over, looking down, speaking softly and calmly, is her way of convincing everyone she's serious. For Leaude, as Guillaume, it's showing the unbridled enthusiasm and eagerness to scream against capitalism and recite the “little red book.” In the more quiet scenes, a subtle twitch of an eyebrow, a glance at 10 o'clock, a slight curl up of the corner of the mouth and we know for these kids it's all in fun.
When Veronique sits down with one of her professors, Francis Jeanson, a former radical himself from the Algiers days, Jeanson unravels the “Marxist Leninist's” not-so-well-thought-out plans. Veronique tells Jeanson her terrorist group intends to bomb the universities to give the bad educational system in France a chance to start fresh. Jeanson then simply asks, “What next?” and Veronique stutters. By then, I start to understand what Godard is driving at. In the late 60's, having been warped and desensitized by a bombardment of Marvel-comic-color advertising and media coverage of radical political groups, if college tweens are looking for a way to stand out and “express themselves,” what better way than to join a radical terrorist group? If they're looking for a fun activity on a mid-summer afternoon, what's more exciting an outing then a trip to city hall to assassinate a political leader. In Godard's ironically joyous point of view, thus is the psyche of the kids of “Marx and Coca-Cola.”

The Birth of a Nation (1915)

2009-09-20T10:00:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 9/18/09

I thought I'd never watch The Birth of a Nation again. Not because I couldn't or because I didn't want to, but because I thought I wasn't supposed to. When I first watched it, I had read a lot about it beforehand so I was properly prepared. In fact my first reaction was that it didn't live up to its racist lore. My first viewing of “Birth” was just to soak in its lurid stench. I couldn't fully grasp that I had experienced what James Agee called “the beginning of melody, the first eloquence of language, the birth of an art.” So when I slouched into my uncomfortable desk with its wobbly back, forced to watch “Birth” for a second time for my “History through the Hollywood Lens” class, I felt privileged. I was glad to be given the chance to watch it again and really study it. (I wondered if anyone, other than its fans of the early 1900's, has actually seen this movie more than once. Who would dare watch it a second time? The first time you watched merely for “academic purposes.” But a second time must mean you liked it.)
I also felt giddy at the opportunity to gauge the initial reaction of a class of “Birth” virgins. I sized them up immediately: smart kids hiding a slam-bang, CGI, “Princess Bride” temperament, probably considering “Shawshank” their favorite “art film.” I stirred in my desk, eager, as the most vile scenes approached, expecting my classmates to be shocked and appalled. I expected them to cringe at the hokey racism: the ghastly make-up, white actors in blackface, foaming at the mouth with beastly lustfulness over the saintly Lillian Gish. To my surprise they acted quite mature. They swallowed “Birth's” fiery bigotry with chilling composure. I didn't hear a single gasp. Instead they turned their noses up at “Birth,” disapproving of Griffith's execution and film-making as much as his racism. They called the movie “boring,” the acting of Gish and Mae Marsh “awful,” and Griffith's direction and specifically his editing “horrible.” But when the movie ended, the class let out a loud exhale like they had just survived a gauntlet. They then applauded themselves, proud to have not fainted or fallen asleep.
I sat at my crappy desk but felt like I was perched atop a giant pedestal made of thousands of DVD rentals. I certainly considered myself the most qualified navel-gazer in the room for having previously sat through Griffith's The Birth of a Nation, his three hour extravagant mess Intolerance and his film Broken Blossoms. I watched, calm and still, searching for reasons to crown “Birth” an offensive masterpiece, while arrogantly looking down on my classmates for not being experts on the craftsmanship of Griffith. I recited in my head everything I had read about Griffith the auteur, and Birth of a Nation. In Agee on Film, James Agee called the battle charge in “Birth,” “the single most beautiful shot I have seen in any movie.” President Woodrow Wilson said Birth of a Nation is “like writing history with lightning.” Griffith's wife wrote in her book When the Movies Were Young, (written in 1925), that “Birth” shows “the stuff its citizens were made of and the reason why this nation has become such a great and wonderful country.” I also remembered what Pauline Kael wrote about Griffith's style and his two favorite actors: Gish and Marsh. In Kael's book Going Steady (one of my favorite books of criticism) reviewing Intolerance she wrote, “One can trace almost every major tradition and most of the genres, and even many of the metaphors, in movies to their sources in Griffith.” She described Gish as “a frail, floating heroine from romantic novels and poems – a maiden” and Marsh as “our dream not of heavenly beauty, but of earthly beauty.”
I felt like I was watching “Birth” the second time partially through the eyes of Agee, Kael, and Mrs. Griffith. Considering their respect for Griffith's movie making craft, I tried to watch “Birth” as attentively as possible. What I found most striking was his ability to delicately balance huge, marvelous battle scenes with small charming scenes that accentuate the elegance of Gish and the dorky enthusiasm of Marsh. Contrary to what my classmates said, I found Birth of a Nation very watchable. It moves with a sense of purpose (maybe not the most honorable one). Griffith cuts smoothly from the Cameron family in the South to the Stoneman's in the North. And his big production, his thousands of extras, and the giant battle scenes don't bog down his story. He builds suspense masterfully, especially in the scene near the end when the KKK is riding to save the innocent whites from the black Union soldiers (as ridiculous as that sounds).
I didn't find Birth of a Nation boring at all. Dare I say I found it strangely entertaining. But I can't blame my classmates for their point of view. (I reacted about the same way the first time I watched “Birth.”) And though some of the battle scenes are extraordinary and some of the close-ups of Gish and Marsh are beautiful, they are overshadowed by the film's later scenes of racism. The scenes of black legislators cooling their stinky bare feet on their desks and sloppily eating chicken wings during session are obscenely silly. Though the first half of Birth of a Nation is mostly crude-free, the second half is despicable. It's bawdy blackface for the dim-wit-KKK-redneck trade. In watching some of the later scenes, I gathered that D. W. Griffith is either virulently racist and manipulative or oblivious and hopelessly stupid.
Racist and disgusting, unbearably boring or not, Birth of a Nation is an important part of film history. To ban it completely or to chop it up into little bits like once suggested would be to deny cinema its roots. And we can't ignore the fact that D.W. Griffith the auteur and the apparent racist was a pioneer of film making and story telling. “Birth” is also a unique snapshot into the mind of the white southerner of the early 20th century. It was the biggest hit in history until Gone with the Wind, and decades later many people still believed it was the greatest film of all time.
Boring, awful, horrible, offensive, despicable, vile, disgusting, obscene, crude, ugly, lurid.... I think I could watch it again.

My Favorite Year (1982)

2009-09-09T12:10:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 9/7/09

My Favorite Year is a slice of showbiz nostalgia (and boy is that a cut from a tired mold) with one glaringly bad performance. Sorry Mark Linn-Baker. And unfortunately its genuine enthusiasm is weighed down by the shapeless joke-spewing style of its executive producer, Mel Brooks.
Thank goodness for Peter O'Toole. He saves My Favorite Year. This movie is proof that O'Toole is that good. Brooks, Linn-Baker and director Richard Benjamin should be kissing his feet. He gives an absolutely wonderful performance. His sarcastic grin and restless eyes tell of hidden juicy secrets. His joyful, bustling spirit make the movie worth the price of admission or a rental fee. In My Favorite Year O'Toole is perfectly cast. He plays Alan Swan, a former star of Hollywood and British Technicolor adventure movies whose career is in decline and whose off-screen shenanigans have made him a caricature on the front page of tabloid newspapers. Swan's career has sunk so low that he is forced to make guest appearances on the hammy freak-show that is mid-50's TV.
The movie is narrated by a variety hour junior writer, Benjy Stone (Linn-Baker) who tells us the story of his favorite year, the year he met his hero Alan Swan. When Swan arrives for pre-production of the show plastered and flirtatious, wearing his tear-away “drunk suit,” Benjy has to convince the star of the show “King” Kaiser (Joseph Bologna) not to dump Swan. As a compromise Benjy is assigned to babysit Swan. For the rest of the movie we follow Benjy following Swan. He makes almost no attempt whatsoever to keep Swan under control other than acting hysterical. But all the more fun for us. Swan parades around with a reckless abandonment. O'Toole couldn't have played it any better. It's clear from the start that the Swan character is based on the infamous romantic charlatan Errol Flynn. For those of you familiar with 50's TV shows, the variety hour is based on the Sid Caesar program in which Flynn made a guest appearance. And the Benjy Stone character is likely based on one of the young Jewish writers for Sid Caesar, Woody Allen or Mel Brooks.
(Side note: My Favorite Year reminded me of Truman Capote's charming piece “A Beautiful Child.” Capote, a self-proclaimed master of memorizing dialogue, gives a detailed description of a few hours he spent with Marilyn Monroe including every remark and every anecdote filled with her famous swearing. What came to mind while watching My Favorite Year in particular was a story Marilyn told Capote about Errol Flynn. “Marilyn: Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Errol Flynn whip out his prick and play the piano with it? Oh well, it was a hundred years ago, I'd just got into modeling, and I went to this half-ass party, and Errol Flynn, so pleased with himself, he was there and he took out his prick and played the piano with it. Thumped the keys. He played You Are My Sunshine.”)
It's this flamboyant Flynn along with a lively performance by Peter O'Toole that is the heart and the charm of My Favorite Year. Alan Swan swung from banisters (as Flynn did in The Adventures of Robin Hood) and smooched gorgeous women in his movies. Everyone loved him and let him do whatever he wanted. But the hero-worship got in his head. He began to see the man in the mirror and the characters projected on the big screen as one and the same. As result he is constantly acting. We watch him play the part of the hero and as his career declines the part of the washed-up actor. We watch him play the part of the hopeless drunkard pulling bottles of scotch out of his trench coat, and the unconscionable womanizer stealing tarts from snobs at fancy restaurants. We watch My Favorite Year and afterwards we forget about its downsides and remember Peter O'Toole as Alan Swan and we remember Errol Flynn: the exuberant swashbuckler and adorable lush.

Pale Rider (1985)

2009-09-04T19:27:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 9/3/09

In Pale Rider, Clint Eastwood (the director and actor) conjures-up the ghost of dead westerns. He regurgitates hero-worship, Sergio Leone “Man with No Name” mythology: the Shane story with the High Noon walk-of-doom. Eastwood also tries to add an esoteric panache and a religious vein. The scenes with a spiritual air glide with a sense of purpose. But too often they come to a thud, fumbling over clunky cliché chunks: tedious man-on-horse stuff that is better left in past movies.
As always Eastwood (the actor) plays the larger-than-life figure: the no name drifter. He does his same old act although once again rather convincingly: flashing his unmistakable menacing glare, towering over tiny villagers with his statuesque build, staring at a nemesis in a showdown, riding on his white horse with a stone-faced self-assurance.
In Pale Rider Eastwood (the director) adds a little extra artsy flair which caught my eye. His character seems to sift through the cold breeze of Gold Rush era California like a transient spirit: a blur in the distance, appearing in the corner of your eye then suddenly vanishing. This kind of myth-mongering may sound familiar but Eastwood gives it a real religious tone. Obviously feeling quite confident in his on-screen dominant presence, Eastwood gives himself the role of a supernatural mishmash of Jesus, The Grim Reaper and a vengeful reincarnation. His face tightens more then ever. And he becomes all the more predictably unstoppable (even standing up to Richard “Jaws” Kiel). He adds layers to his usual impenetrable shell. But Eastwood really couldn't play it any other way. And part of me loves the stability he brings. I can always count on Eastwood to bludgeon the bad guys while staying untouched and cool. In every scene Eastwood reeks havoc but (maybe to the fault of the movie) everything stays calm and under control.
After a remote, small village of huts and log cabins is devastated by the annoyingly idiotic, barbaric goons (they even gun-down a puppy) who work for a greedy mining boss, Josh LaHood (Chris Penn), Eastwood arrives as “the miracle” in response to the hopeful prayer of a young girl, Megan (Sydney Penny). He finds the girl's father-figure, Hull Barret (Michael Moriarty), being beaten by some of the of buck-tooth delinquents. Eastwood immediately makes his presence felt: promptly bashing-in four heads with a stick. Eastwood then slaps on a white collar, joins Hull back at the battered village and becomes the “Preacher.” He brings the few remaining villagers together and gives them courage to fight against the evil LaHood. (By the way, Eastwood couldn't resist giving his spirit character a woman to sleep with.)
When LaHood offers each villager $1,000 to leave, with the guidance of Hull and the Preacher, the villagers decline. As a result they face the wrath of LaHood's seven killers: the ruthless Marshal Stockburn (John Russel) and his six deputies. Just as the final confrontation is about to occur, Eastwood takes off his white collar and straps on his holster. Apparently he's got “some unfinished business” to settle with Marshal Stockburn. Eastwood rides to town and takes the lone walk (as Gary Cooper did) up a deserted street to meet Stockburn and his six deputies. The seven killers step out of LaHood's office and neatly align for a spaghetti-western-esque face-off. Of course, Eastwood drops all six deputies with ease. He disappears from the middle of the street then kills each deputy one-by-one, popping up from a water main (which looked hokey), then out from behind barrels. Eastwood walks up to the marshal. Shockburn shouts “You!” And Eastwood, now channeling Death, shoots Stockburn five times in the same spots Eastwood has mysterious bullet wounds. He then hops on his horse and rides away. Adhering to the Shane formula, the young girl Megan runs after Eastwood, stops at the edge of town and shouts “Preacher! Preacher!...We love you Preacher...I love you!...Goodbye!”
In Pale Rider, Eastwood gives old movie myths new life but unfortunately some of the myths seem as cliché as they always did.

This Man Must Die (1969)

2009-09-03T09:12:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 9/2/09

Claude Chabrol's This Man Must Die has a mannered propriety. The actors' stiff-neck posture and drab, quiet tone are worthy of a Robert Bresson film. These kinds of films by directors like Chabrol, Bresson and others, which are usually foreign and usually French, are like a fine wine for the movie critics who snicker at the bulbous Hollywood studio productions. But for the average audience this style is an unbearable bore. And although with many of the movies with this style I'd say, “let 'em squirm.” (I absolutely love Bresson's Mouchette and Chabrol's Le Boucher and I don't care that the modern, average audience would think they were boring.) But with This Man Must Die Chabrol has practically committed highway robbery. He uses his style to bog-down an otherwise routine, guaranteed-to-be-entertaining manhunt story. He rips the fun out of shamelessly fun story.
The film begins with an elegantly photographed drive-by killing of an innocent small child. We see a man driving away in his dented car blurt with a vulgar attitude, “Shut up” to a beautiful woman crying next to him. We then see the title, “This Man Must Die,” and the opening credit: “Adapted from the novel 'The Beast Must Die.'” These titles are very self explanatory. We soon meet Charles Thenier (Michael Duchaussoy), the father of the dead child. It's very obvious what Thenier is going to try to do. Despite the fact that tracking down a man he knows nothing about seems impossible, and even after the police do an extensive search and come up with no leads, we know somehow, (through some unbelievable coincidences), Thenier will find his man. And somehow this man will die. But the ride in tracking down the wretched man who would run over a small girl and leave her for dead is a drag. And the eventual death of the drive-by killer is very unsatisfying. (By the way, the drive-by killer is played very well by Jean Yanne.) The movie gets caught in its own ambiguous twist and never fulfills us with a grab-him-at-the-color, let-him-have-it death. We know the drive-by killer dies but we never actually see it. It's a crucial let-down.
With Chabrol's This Man Must Die, the combination of the quiet French style with what is already a conventional, relatively predictable story was destined to be dull. I can only guess that the posturing of a simple manhunt thriller was intended to be ironic and funny. Maybe it was supposed to be a tame version of a Luis Buneul black comedy. But that doesn't show. Instead the movie feels like an awkward mismatch. The suspense of the tracking down and killing of a horrible man falls flat in the uncomfortable pauses, the swallowing of outbursts and the repressed emotions.

Rumble Fish (1983)

2009-09-02T16:37:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 9/1/09

Rumble Fish looks like an artsy masterpiece: a tactile, grimy and grungy black-and-white wonder. But the visual assault, the relentless style suffocates the characters and the performances. It blurs any glimmer of a story. And an awesome cast which includes some of my favorite actors (Mickey Rourke, Nicolas Cage, Dennis Hopper) is wasted. They take a back seat to Francis Ford Coppola and the cinematographer Stephen H. Burum's extreme camera angles and Wellesian deep focus.
Rumble Fish is dazzling and it looks original. It has the visual indulgence that reflects the work of a "real artist.” It has the carnival extravagance of a late 60's and 70's Fellini and the photography of street corners and shadowy alleys remind me of 20's and 30's German expressionism. Unfortunately Rumble Fish is a movie without a base. The structure, the story and the characters are flimsy. They seem adrift in the endless fog of an unnamed urban city nightmare. We hold on by a string.
The only coherent character in Rumble Fish is Rusty James, a local biker gang hero played with a naive teenage-jock obliviousness by Matt Dillon. Rusty has taken over as the leader of the biker gang while his brother, a local legend known as “The Motorcycle Boy” (Mickey Rourke), is in California. Rusty rounds-up his brethren, Smokey (Nicolas Cage), B.J. (Chris Penn), Midget (Laurence Fishburne) and Steve (Vincent Spano). They skip down to an abandoned garage or prance around under a bridge for fights against rival gangs like the “Jets” or “Sharks” from West Side Story. After Rusty is cut across the chest by his nemesis Biff Wilcox (Glenn Withrow), the Motorcycle Boy unexpectedly appears and comes to Rusty's rescue. Mickey Rourke does his best to play the slightly crazed biker gang legend. He thickens his throaty whispers, his hair is crumpled and disheveled. Rourke looks dazed and confused in the role. He's stripped of the “suave desperation” that he had in Diner and the calm and sturdy demeanor he had in Body Heat. The jarring low angles and uncomfortable close ups mixed with misty, murky medium shots make Rourke's character seem like a ghost. That was probably the intention, but with Rourke I'm used to having something “real” to grab on to.
Rusty and the Motorcycle Boy's poor, boozing father is played by Dennis Hopper. Considering his part in Apocalypse Now and especially his later performance in Blue Velvet, Hopper seems perfect to play a dirty old, inebriated bum. He's a very entertaining over-actor and his over-the-top showiness usually pops. But in Rumble Fish Hopper simply blends in to the dream world with the cast of quasi-realistic characters.
As Pauline Kael once said about art-conscious movies, they float but never touch the ground. This is definitely true of Rumble Fish. But taking into account Francis Ford Coppola's rough stretch in the 80's, the bankruptcy of his company, the failure of One From the Heart, I'm glad to see that he's once again made something that at least floats in the first place.

Good Will Hunting (1997)

2009-09-01T16:23:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 9/1/09

Matt Damon and Ben Affleck deserve a pat on the back for their warm hearted script. Damon, Affleck, Robin Williams, Stellan Skarsgard and the entire cast give a great effort on this nice-try, well intentioned project. But in Gus Van Sant's bleached, TV-lighting and with all around bad timing, the performances, Affleck and Damon's “Southie” talk and the overwrought therapy-blubbering seem forced. And Good Will Hunting plays like nothing more than soft melodrama with good cliché sense.
From the start it's hard to tell the aim of Good Will Hunting. We follow Will Hunting (Matt Damon), a closet genius wearing a janitor's outfit. He has a photographic memory. He knows everything about everything: history, physics, chemistry, art and especially math. Will can scribble down the answer to a problem that has puzzled mathematicians for years on a napkin over lunch. But he chooses to conceal his intelligence. (Although we're allowed an obligatory scene where “wicked smaaht” Will shows-up a Harvard "prick".) He prefers the romanticism of good honest construction work, drinking beer and smoking at the local pup with his buddies over the snobbishness of a well-paid job and a Nobel Prize.
Good Will Hunting seemed to be shaping into a study of unrealized potential. Will's best friend Chuckie (Ben Affleck) tells him, “I'd do anything to have what you got....You're sitting on a winning lottery ticket and you're too much of a pussy to cash it in.” But midway through it starts to look more like a Freudian mess. We delve into Will's psyche, his childhood of abuse, his orphanage, his fear of commitment and vulnerability and abandonment etc. He sits across from his therapist Sean (Robin Williams), at first he doesn't speak, he twiddles his thumbs and watches the clock as the hour required by his P. O. ticks away. But then, Will and Sean become best friends, they share stories about famous Red Sox games. And eventually they share tears: Sean over his wife who died of cancer and Will over his past.
Good Will Hunting comes to a predictable end but we remember the little cliché moments and the various actors' energy: in particular Chuckie's four-letter “Southie” jive spoken with a comfort level and an understanding of the immature, adolescent bravado by Ben Affleck. And you'll never forget the famous but unbearably corny scene where Sean tells Will over and over, “It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault.” He says that three more times before Will starts weeping uncontrollably.
By the end Good Will Hunting had shaped into a sloppy melodrama. Ben and Matt and Gus Van Sant cashed in a big box-office success. Good for them. And thankfully, Good Will Hunting at least catapulted Matt and Gus Van Sant into making much better movies.

Forty Guns (1957)

2009-08-30T11:11:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/29/09

Samuel Fuller's Forty Guns is covered with annoying clumps of throw-away conventional cinema. But underneath it is a wonderful mock-western. The Arizona 19th century frontier is stripped of its man-on-horse love affairs and macho honor code (Peckinpah-esque) babble. The dusty, hairy and dirty wild west is replaced by a drab, clean-cut town. The cowboys look more like city slickers, as fit to hold a tommy-gun as their Colt-45. The violence isn't overly drawn-out with shifty eyed stare-downs and High-Noon-esque staginess. Instead, it is spontaneous, sometimes anti-climatic and the results (who lives and who dies) of the shootouts and bar-room brawls are unpredictable.
Forty Guns is about U.S. Marshal Griff Bonnell (Barry Sullivan) who is sent to an Arizona town to arrest Howard Swain (Chuck Roberson). When he finds Swain, he learns that Swain is one of the 40 hired guns of local landowner Jessica Drummond (Barbara Stanwyck). Drummond and Bonnel eventually cross paths which leads to a romantic relationship.
Taking the aforementioned clumps into consideration, Forty Guns has its peeks and valleys. There are moments of dull conversation, there are some lame set-ups. But there are also moments of crazy, unkempt activity (real movie-fun), the kind of moments you'll always remember (your brain attaches a mental post-it note). They're great attention grabbers. Samuel Fuller is giving a joyful wink to the audience when he shocks or appalls, when he breaks unwritten rules.
In Forty Guns when Griff Bonnell is confronted by a drunk hooligan, Brockie (John Ericson) who has just terrorized and shot-up the town, don't expect them to take 10 steps in opposite directions, turn and fire. Instead Griff simply walks comfortably towards Brockie, as Brockie screams and threatens to shoot, and then abruptly pulls his gun out of his holster and thumps Brockie over the head. In a Samuel Fuller quiet Arizona town, don't expect a peaceful wedding: as the picturesque newlyweds share a first kiss, the husband is shot down. In Forty Guns don't expect a heart-to-heart conversation to reach its tear-jerking climax, that too is liable to be cut short by gun fire. I cherish all of these great little moments of artless violence. They can be silly or ridiculous but they're always entertaining. And my favorite moment in Forty Guns is the ending (ignoring the final two scenes added on top because the producers disapproved). It's a fantastic slap in the face to westerns. Griff's girl, Jessica, is being held up by one of her 40 guns, Brockie (the same hooligan from earlier). Brockie yells at Griff, “I'd like to see you shoot her!” Then, wasting no time, BANG! Jessica is down, then BANG... BANG... BANG......... BANG! Brockie is dead. Griff walks past them with a cold forcefulness, never once looking down at the two bodies.
That scene brings to mind one other interesting thing about Forty Guns: its phallic love for guns. All the characters in the movie talk about guns with a strange passionate attentiveness. Jessica says to Griff, “I'm not interested in you, Mr. Bonnell. It's your trademark,” pointing to his gun, purring. She then says, “May I feel it?” The trigger clicks... BANG....and they get goosebumps all over. One shot after another from their freshly polished pistol is how they get off. They treat each other like strangers and their guns like a loved one, their one and only companion. At the end when Griff shoots Jessica, he has expressed his deepest feelings for her. Griff shooting Jessica at waist level is their way of consummating.
With Forty Guns, despite its final two scenes, despite some boring characters and listless performances, I can think fondly back on the spontaneous violence and the hilarious covertly sexual dialogue. I love Samuel Fuller the fringe, pulp-movie director. And what I love most is his willingness to shock me.

The Big Lebowski (1998)

2009-08-29T12:37:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/28/09

The Big Lebowski is a hilariously entertaining film. F-bombs and pot-belly, shaggy-dog laziness only add to its charm. Joel and Ethan Cohen approach a film about a group of slouches and bums with a joyous twinkle in their eye. They pepper the dialogue with everyman cursing. They run the movie to a first class mixed tape. And they also show off a taste for LA flashy style. It's enthusiastic and playful. We welcome The Big Lebowski as a sort of camp fire tale, told by baritone old west Sam Elliot, about a man we all know: “The Dude.” He straddles a dangerous line of unemployed, on and off the streets and indifferent. But “The Dude” never gets too down, he somehow stays afloat. And though we may berate him for not being motivated (which makes us feel superior), part of us wish we were a dude. We wish we had carefree nonchalant swagger and stress-free life of nothing but bowling and avoiding paying rent. And The Big Lebowski is “The Dude's” wild ride. Our dude, Jeffrey Lebowski (Jeff Bridges), sets down the beer in one hand and pulls his fingers out of the bowling ball in the other hand. He tilts down the shades covering his eyes, flicks back his overgrown bangs, scratches his scruffy beard and side burns. He picks himself up off his minor weed high and is ready to roll.
In The Big Lebowski our dude finds himself in a sticky situation. One night after shopping for some milk at Ralph's, “The Dude” comes home and is beat up by two thugs who mistake him for another Lebowski (David Huddleston) who owes them money. During the break-in one of the two thugs urinates on his favorite carpet (which he says “really tied the room together”). So our dude decides to for once go against his pacifist instincts and confront the other Lebowski who is apparently rich and ask him to replace his carpet. “The Dude” saunters into the other Lebowski's mansion but his pleas for a new carpet are to no avail. So, of course, what does “The Dude” do? Well, he steals a carpet, that's what. Now he has a beautiful Persian rug as the centerpiece of his room. Not long after, the other Lebowski calls “The Dude” back to his home with an urgent request. He tells “The Dude” that his trophy wife Bunny a ditsy teen played by Tara Reid, has been kidnapped. And if “The Dude” will be the courier for a 1 million dollar payoff, he'll get paid $20,000. When “The Dude” tells this to his bowling buddy Walter (John Goodman), a high-strung Vietnam Vet who pulls his gun on people who violate bowling rules, Walter takes control and concocts a ridiculous plan for the drop off. He packs an Uzi into a paper bag and his dirty undies into a suitcase that will serve as a decoy for the kidnappers, so Walter and Lebowski can grab Bunny and keep the money.
Over the course of his wild ride, “The Dude” finds himself at a gated community police station, watching Walter demolishing a convertible to intimidate a teenager, in a bowling-ball-vs-sword fight with a German leather-pants band, and inadvertently drinking an acid, roofie spiked “White Russian” at a porn Tzar's house. He is thrown around like a ping-pong ball to every corner of LA, to every weird person in town. And it is fun to watch him sigh, irritated that all these shenanigans interrupt his lounging routine. He sits at the bar and orders his favorite drink. He laments to the bartender about a rough day. But he still keeps a small smirk on his face. He gets up, whips back his hair, and slowly and smoothly puts on his shades remembering, I shouldn't be whining, I'm a dude.

Synecdoche, New York (2008)

2009-08-28T11:18:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/27/09

From Adaptation, a movie about Charlie Kaufman (played by Nicolas Cage) writing the script for Adaptation, to Synecdoche, New York, a movie directed by Kaufman about directing, Kaufman attempted to take a step toward the truth in his creative madness. But unfortunately I think he only found a bigger disaster and more confusion. And the once lovably jittery and quirky writer has shifted and evolved into a foreboding director.
In Synecdoche, New York Kaufman's on-screen persona is Caden Cotard (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman), a theater director whose life is unraveling. For Caden it's one ailment after another, one visit to the hospital after another. He is always deteriorating. His marriage is crumbling. Finally his wife (Catherine Keener), who is an artist of miniature paintings, leaves him and takes his daughter. Caden then starts flirting with Hazel (Samantha Morton), a delicate box-office girl. But after Caden crumbles under carnal pressure one night in Hazel's bedroom, he's left feeling inept and humiliated.
At this point “Synecdoche” is simply keen melodrama: well acted and engaging if maybe a little depressing. But then unexpectedly, Caden receives a MacArthur genius grant which gives him unlimited funding to pursue any artistic whim. This also gives Kaufman unlimited freedom in depicting the “creative process,” (obviously his favorite topic). In Adaptation he was forced to do this with narration because his on-screen persona was a writer. With “Synecdoche,” because his persona is a theater director, his thoughts and ideas can come alive on stage.
Caden decides to make his masterpiece, a huge all encompassing work of art, a brutally honest and realistic depiction of his plight and what he believes is his rapidly approaching death. Caden assembles a large cast, he chooses a gigantic warehouse in the NY theater district to house the project. At first his somber, depressing piece seems focused: It's about “Death!” But as his life becomes more confusing, so does his play. He concludes, “I don't know what I'm doing.”
In the deep and scary abyss that is “writer's block” also known as the “creative process,” Caden does as Kaufman did in Adaptation, except he takes it even further which ends up being a step in the wrong direction. In Adaptation Kaufman dug himself out of a “writer's block” hole and a muddle of conflicting ideas by deciding to write the script about the writing of the script: including all the funny stories, reflecting on his social awkwardness, then finally relating it to it's original aim (Kaufman was supposed to be adapting The Orchid Thief). But with Caden's piece, instead of being retrospective, he only deepens the “writer's block” hole. Instead of making a play about how he was struggling with the “creative process” and a terrible, nerve-racking life, he makes an endless play about how he is continually struggling with the “creative process” and his nerve-racking life. As a result the giant warehouse becomes a stagy replica of Schenectady and NYC. His actors mimic everything happening in his life. He hires a woman to play Hazel and another to play his wife. His actors play their parts non-stop. He creates a copycat world to study, maybe so he can discover what is causing his pain.
Synecdoche, New York is at times a synecdochical, poetic delight: thoughtful and fascinating. But in the end it is a mad spiraling-out-of-control mess. The mass of ideas converge and form a confounding, bewildering blob. I was also exhausted and tired from watching Caden's relentless trepidation and bemoaning. But then again as frustrating as the movie is, it comes to a perfect end, its only logical conclusion. The endless spiral, the blob of ideas surrounding Caden finally vanish. He has a serene “writer's block,” “creative process” death. I guess, it's what he had anticipated all along. He falls into the arms of the actor playing him and says just before he passes, “I know how to do this play now. I have an idea, I think...”

Inglourious Basterds (2009)

2009-08-27T10:33:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/26/09

Quentin Tarantino is a unique director. He is the ultimate movie geek film maker. His movies are an endless homage, a slapped-together mash-up of exploitation b-movies and his Fave 5 soundtracks (Ennio Morricone spaghetti-western music and David Bowie's “Putting Out Fire” from the 1982 remake of Cat People). They are whimsically gory and sarcastically serious. They indulge QT's extraordinary movie love. He is lovably hip if somewhat childish, wearing tennis shoes and giving the peace sign on talk shows. And with Inglourious Basterds (speaking of childish, what a title) QT has nearly accomplished something unprecedented. At least for a good portion of the movie Inglourious Basterds is the first funny, entertaining cartoonish slam-bang action spoof of the Nazis and the Holocaust.
The movie is made up of 5 chapters. The first begins at a quiet dairy farm in 1941 occupied France where SS officer Hans Landa, aka “The Jew Hunter” (played by Christoph Waltz who won the best actor award at the Cannes film festival for his performance), is visiting the LaPadite family out of suspicion that they are hiding Jews. In another chapter we meet the “Basterds,” a renegade group of Jewish American soldiers tracking down and killing as many Nazis as possible. Their leader is Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt), aka “Aldo the Apache,” a rough and tumble hick from Tennessee. Other note worthy “Basterds” are “The Bear Jew” (Eli Roth) who clubs German skulls like Ted Williams does baseballs and Hugo Stiglitz (Til Schweiger) known as a master of slitting throats.
For the most part Inglourious Basterds is a success and the ending a wonderful rewrite of history, the perfect “burn baby burn” Nazi slaying. But unfortunately the movie stumbles over a few attempts at seriousness. As a result the collection of scenes seems uneven. The bursts of raucous comic violence clash with drawn-out scenes of genuine tension. Most of the 5 chapters begin slowly with scenes of interesting subtle dialogue and then end with guns blazing.
Even some of the individual scenes seem off balance. I think this is mainly because of the brilliant performance of Christoph Waltz as the chilling and menacing SS “Jew Hunter.” Waltz brings a seriousness and believability to his roll which is sometimes awkward to watch because he is paired with characters that aren't at all serious (especially Brad Pitt and his silly accent). His performance adds a new more complex dimension to the film, but one I think Tarantino isn't ready to handle.
Watching Inglourious Basterds, we laugh and get excited at the scalpings, Aldo poking and digging his finger in a bullet hole, carving swastika's in German soldier's foreheads. We get all riled up for a Tarantino stylish sadistic blood bath (in a sexy Nazi red) because his lack of seriousness allows us to ignore any of the horrible, sad implications of death. But the second I closely connect to a character or in this case see the true Nazi in Hans Landa, the endless corpses take on meaning (Landa's strangling of Bridget Von Hammersmarck played by Diane Kruger is the first brutal hard-to-watch death I've seen in a Tarantino movie). The nasty implications of Inglourious Basterds rear their ugly head. I remember I'm not supposed to laugh and have fun watching a movie about WWII and the Holocaust. And the somber topic is a total buzz kill of my Tarantino Nazisploitation thrill ride.

Point Blank (1967)

2009-08-26T08:14:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/24/09

Point Blank is a routine revenge film made dazzling and mesmerizing by hip sixties style and French New Wave cutting. We find Lee Marvin, his face pockmarked and battered as usual, dazed and confused, lying in a puddle of dirt on the floor of an Alcatraz prison cell with two bullet holes in his chest. The film is cut and slashed, we jump back to a heist gone wrong. Marvin as “Walker” and his friend Reese (John Verner) steal thousands in cash from a helicopter transporting Mob money to the prison, known as the “Alcatraz drop.” But Reese then betrays “Walker” taking his $93,000 share, making off with his wife (Sharon Acker) and leaving Walker for dead at the prison. The background turns to an Andy Warhol-esque swirl of oranges and reds, a color splurge (like a psychedelic finger painting). The opening credits roll. Then for the rest of the movie we follow “Walker” living out his vengeful fantasy, cutting back and forth, flashing back to the cell, back to the heist, back and back again, over and over. Walker hits San Francisco landmarks, patrols under the highway bridges of Los Angeles, and then at the end drifts into a dark shadowy oblivion back at Alcatraz.
Was it all Walker's last dream? Did Walker die at Alcatraz or did he recover? (At one point Angie Dickinson tells Marvin, “You died at Alcatraz.” ) One of the treasures of Point Blank is that these questions are left unanswered. Walker remains an enigma. He sifts through LA and San Francisco like a ghost. Lee Marvin's stiff cold demeanor and statuesque figure, his leathery skin blend in with the silver coated cities, the straight-cut fashion, satin faded pastel colors, (Dickinson's yellow striped dress) prim models, mini-skirts and leopard-skin sheets.
Walker tracks down Reese, his wife, and the mob men responsible for the “Alcatraz drop,” leaving mounds of corpses behind. But strangely enough, Walker never actually kills anyone. Sure, he roughs up a few body guards but only ever in self defense. He instead acts as a kind of evil spirit causing Reese, his wife, and the mob men to either kill each other or themselves.
Point Blank is an exhilarating if sometimes confusing ride of brute bullish action glossed with smooth, sleek style. But it is also a stifling of emotions (except for the brilliant scene where Dickinson slaps Marvin repeatedly to no avail). In this world of jazzy music and stoned faces, violence is inconsequential and sex is trendy.
A dream or not, Point Blank with Marvin's degenerate steamrolling, Dickinson's sexy fleshiness, John Boorman's New Wave showoffish directing, the pulp novel “The Hunter” turned pulp-action 60's vogue movie is a thrill.

Sophie's Choice (1982)

2009-08-23T11:48:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/22/09

Sophie's Choice is a heart-melting, tear-jerking guilt trip. Layers of intrigue unfold with an exploitive, manipulative touch blurring our memory of gratuitous posturing.
The first layer has a campy artificial glow. We meet Stingo (Peter MacNicol), a sweet southern writer who has moved to a cute old boardinghouse in Brooklyn, and an odd couple, Sophie (Meryl Streep), a Polish immigrant and her lover Nathan (Kevin Kline). They are a match made in cliché threesome heaven. Sophie is beautiful but vulnerable and naïve. Nathan is erratic and abusive but exciting. And Stingo is the perfect third wheel, soft-spoken and thin-skinned, standing idly by watching Sophie and Nathan's destructive relationship, worshiping Sophie while subtly loathing Nathan. Scene after dull, predictable scene our threesome play the same game. Sophie and Stingo begin a conversation. They seem to be connecting. Then suddenly in pops Nathan with his strange but fun-at-heart antics, stealing Sophie's attention. The camera focuses on Stingo as Nathan and Sophie kiss and cuddle. We see him look down at his feet, pouting like a sad puppy. Awkwardness sets in.
These opening scenes are kind of boring and much too clean but I think maybe intentionally so. After 30 minutes we are lulled to a near sleep, already tired of the characters. I was thinking, did Streep really win best actress for this? But little did we know that in Sophie's Choice when you chip away the layer of campy fun (?) underneath you'll find a thicker layer of gut-wrenching melodrama and guilt mongering exploitation.
To our surprise both Nathan and Sophie have “ugly” secrets. We learn Nathan's occasional rant or tirade and dressing-up-in-costumes exuberance can be explained by his paranoid schizophrenia and cocaine addiction. (Only in the movies does a short temper, jealousy and enthusiasm indicate mental disorder and a drug habit). This strange revelation coming near the end was an unnecessary jolt. The cocaine piece was too much. I think mental disease would have been more than enough. And Nathan was already forgotten by this point. Our attention was totally wrapped in Sophie.
Early in the movie we saw that Sophie had a number tattoo indicating she was a prisoner of the Holocaust. And in one of the heart-to-heart talks with Stingo she alluded to problems she had with her father in Poland. (I put the Holocaust stuff in my memory banks expecting it to come up later.) Then midway through the movie Sophie once again sat down with Stingo, the camera closed in on Meryl Streep's face (this is when she won her Oscar) leaving us no wiggle room, no way to ignore Sophie's story. She then unveiled her depressing past, her memories of Auschwitz and her fateful “choice.” We see in flashbacks that Sophie was once married with children in Poland and her father was a Nazi supporter. She and her children were taken to Auschwitz for being Polish. There she was forced by a Nazi guard to choose between her two children, who lives and who dies.
My heart was pounding. My first thought was that Sophie's Choice is a great movie and that Streep's performance is unbelievable (she deserved the Oscar). But I remembered a low, awful feeling while watching. I remembered my boredom from watching the early scenes. And I remembered a specific manipulative lurid cut in the flashbacks. (We see Sophie and her two children on a train heading to Auschwitz. The camera zooms in on the two kids. They are trembling, clinging to their mother. Then cut to smoke shooting out of gas chambers.) I realized that the light-hearted early scenes are a device to lure us in or at least warm us up. Feeling we're on even ground, we welcome Sophie, Stingo and Nathan's problems and stories, unaware we've been made an easy knockout for stomach churning guilt and teary-eyed melodrama.

Full Metal Jacket (1987)

2009-08-21T13:31:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/21/09

Don't be fooled by sharp tongue, sardonic soldier-jive (plucked from Gustav Hasford's novel, The Short-Timers) or the early scenes of Marine Corp S&M. Full Metal Jacket is undoubtedly Stanley Kubrick's least imaginative film and his most disappointing.
The film opens at recruit training camp where heads are shaved to the music of “Hello Vietnam.” In the midst of crotch-grabbing silly chants (“This is my rifle, this is my gun. This is for fighting this is for fun”) the first part of “FMJ” has a macho self-punishment nightmarish vivacity. The skin head “maggots” are spit on and berated by drill Sergeant Hartman, played with a cartoonish over animated temper by Lee Ermey. He shouts obscenities and idealizes the marksmanship of Lee Harvey Oswald while praising the Virgin Mary. Hartman in particular verbally abuses and humiliates the incompetent, overweight Leonard who he names “Gomer Pyle,” played by Vincent D'Onofrio. Hartman's tough love slowly turns Gomer into a gun-groping psychopath which finally leads to a confrontation. D'Onofrio tilts back his eyes, half smirks and drools to best mimic the warped, crazed look.
We jump from the neatly folded white sheets, bunk beds and synchronized jogging of the camp base to an only slightly more chaotic, not at all intimidating Vietnam (Kubrick chose to film in England), which pales in comparison to the frightening jungle in Platoon or Apocalypse Now. Oliver Stone's Vietnam makes Kubrick's look welcoming. We follow “Joker,” (not that he's funny), a correspondent for the “Stars and Stripes” military propaganda paper, played by Matthew Modine. Modine has the sarcastic grin of Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, but none of the devious bite or intelligence. The “Joker” is totally uninteresting. But I'm not sure I should blame Modine. Kubrick gives him nothing to do and no time to shine. Actually, all of the characters in the film are no more human or engaging than “HAL” from “2001.”
In the second half of “FMJ” we don't closely follow any characters and there isn't much of a story. It is more a collection of dull vignettes. Kubrick uses steady-cam to death giving us the illusion of a story moving forward. (I'm having trouble remembering what actually happens.) Oh, “Joker” and his photographer Rafterman (Kevyn Howard) fight off the North Vietnamese Army during the Tet Offensive. They go to Phu Bai and fight, usually in the traditional way: moving slowly forward, hiding behind rocks or walls.
When journalists interview the soldiers and ask what they think about the war, they all give strange, stoned faced answers: some talking about trivial things, others sounding racist. I think Kubrick is trying to convey that the soldiers have become indifferent about killing and desensitized. But the setting is non-threatening. We never felt a connection to the characters (maybe the split second before their hair was shaved in the first scene). As a result the message seems arbitrarily supplanted to make the film anti-war trendy.
I think I would let all of this go if in the second half the film retained its sadistic comedy. But that is also left at training camp with Gomer and the drill Sergeant. There are bits of irony like “Joker's” helmet which has a peace symbol pin attached and “Born to Kill” written on the side. But the humor lacks a character center. It's like a Kubrick movie without an actor to give one menacing stare (which Gomer does in the bathroom scene).
The first part of the movie has a dark irony horror show vigor, the unique audacity of Kubrick giving us a jolt and even living up to hype. But the rest falls flat on its face. It is slogging in war movie clichés and by the end I'd nearly forgotten Gomer and the famous soap socking scene.“FMJ” features some of Kubrick at his worst: suffocating actors until he doesn't have any characters. It also in the end fails to live up to our enormous expectations for a Kubrick movie. And although Kubrick is great at damage control - rousing us with a catchy soundtrack, a few beautiful shots, and fun foul mouthed dialogue - Full Metal Jacket is for Kubrick, shockingly banal.

The Lady from Shanghai (1948)

2009-08-20T12:25:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/19/09

An Orson Welles film destined for failure, a box-office flop, cut to pieces (maybe rightfully so) and turned into a confounding mess, is no doubt destined for legend.
As the story goes, Orson Welles was once again in way over his head on a project. He was attempting to remake Around the World in Eighty Days adding an ironic twist. Of course he needed money, 50,000 dollars, so he made a deal with Columbia producer Harry Cohn: Cohn would lend him the money if Welles would write, direct and act in a film with Columbia star Rita Hayworth (Welles' wife at the time) for no further fee. When Cohn asked Welles what the film would be about, Welles, standing in a hotel lobby, glanced at the book stand and suggested the film be based on If I Die Before I Wake. Which he had never read.
The film was slapped together in less than a year but as with all Welles films, much time was needed for heavy editing. The result is The Lady from Shanghai: chaotic, perplexing, labyrinthine (Cohn famously offered 1000 dollars to anyone who could explain the plot), featuring bits of brilliance, bad dubbing, overlapping dialogue, strange camera angles, awkward gaps that are an indication of cut footage (all Orson Welles trademarks). It's the Welles mystique verbatim. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Butchered, untidy, confusing, whatever, The Lady from Shanghai is an absolute favorite.
Welles plays an Irish drifter, Michael O'Hara, who encounters the beautiful blonde Elsa Bannister, played surprisingly well by Hayworth. (Welles taunted and infuriated Columbia pictures by forcing Hayworth to cut and bleach her famous long auburn hair.) Michael saves Elsa from three attacking ruffians, so Elsa hires Michael to be her body guard. Elsa is enticing, seductive, seething with passion but also bitter over her marriage with handicapped lawyer Arthur Bannister (Everett Sloane). Michael somehow finds himself entangled in conspiracies, winding up the fall guy for a murder. The story spirals out of control into a muddle of who done it? Say what? Then finally coming to the mesmerizing climax in the hall of mirrors. Aurthur Bannister points his gun at Elsa and says “Killing you is killing myself. But, you know, I'm pretty tired of the both of us.”
After watching one of the botched Orson Welles films, I always ask myself, do I really want to see The Lady from Shanghai, or any of the others as Orson truly intended? Do I really want to see the so called “holly grail” of lost film, the original ending to The Magnificent Ambersons? I'll admit, my answer is always an emphatic Yes! But I think the “Ambersons” ending and what Welles truly intended for his other films are better left to the imagination. And there's no doubt in my mind that all the lost footage, crazy horror stories, bombed or unfinished projects have raised Welles' esteem as a director. We watch a Welles film, see bits of brilliance and imagine what could have been, lifting Touch of Evil, “Ambersons,” or Falstaff in our minds to “Kane” level.
The Lady from Shanghai - cut, mangled, thrown together in shambles - is yet another Welles gem.

Un Chien Andalou (1928)

2009-08-19T11:14:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/18/09

Luis Bunuel's films are a guilty pleasure: indifferent sacrilege and whimsical pornography with a lawless depraved charm. Their utter absurdity keep me in limbo, bewildered and confused but oddly enough, laughing. At first I laugh as a nervous reaction to being completely shocked. I feel a sort of detachment, as if Bunuel's message is always one step ahead of me. But slowly a Bunuel film strips me of my conventions for movie watching (the woman looking out a window is not necessarily watching the man in the following shot, they could be completely unrelated). I'm put in a primitive state of dream logic (the Freudian term for no logic). There is no message. It doesn't make sense and it's not supposed to. I chuckle at the ironic or satirical, shake my head (hiding a smile) at the revolting, feeling as though I understand the gag.
A Bunuel film is an attitude - anti-establishment, leftist, blasphemous but mostly carefree - and a collection of remarkable little zany ideas, put together with a shaggy slap-happy fancy. He mocks seriousness and snobbery by undercutting it with perversion and cruelty (the noble priest or proper bourgeoisie are always closet fetishists, treating each other like "An Andalusian Dog"). He scoffs at the thought of mise en scene, throwing together jagged shots, leaving in abnormalities or goofs, and seeming to cast blindfolded (although having two different actors play one part in That Obscure Object of Desire must have been calculated). Of all Bunuel's hedonist, insane masterpieces (Belle de jour, The Exterminating Angel and “Discreet Charm” among my favorites) Un Chien Andalou, the 16 minute short, is undoubtedly the most maddening and the most purely ridiculous.
One afternoon in Paris Luis Bunuel had lunch with Salvatore Dali, one of many friends from the French surrealist cult. Bunuel remarked to Dali that he dreamed that a thin cloud cut the moon in half like a razor blade. Dali responded by describing a dream in which his hand was crawling with ants. It was from there that Dali and Bunuel conceived Un Chien Andalou.
The movie opens with the card “Once upon a time....” We then see a man (Bunuel himself) sharpening a razor blade on a balcony. He looks up and we see a thin cloud approaching a full moon, cut to “wife” (played by Simone Mareuil who later committed self-immolation) being held down by “husband.” The cloud crosses the moon, then we see the razor blade slice “wife's” eye (actually a calf's eye) in half. From then on, to the music of Wagner and a jaunty tango, taunted by ever changing title cards (“About 3 in the Morning,” “17 Years Before,” “In Spring”) we see a man riding a bike down the street in a nun's outfit. We see Dali's dream of an ant-hill hand, then someone run over by a car, then the “wife” being groped by a man drooling blood. We see the “wife” running from the man, then grabbing a tennis racket to defend herself, and the man abruptly stopping to pick up and pull two ropes attached to two ten commandment tablets, two priests (one played by Salvatore Dali), two pianos and two rotting donkey corpses. Later we see a man's mouth replaced by a patch of armpit hair. (I'm giggling just describing the wacky lewdness.)
Call it obscene, disgusting debauchery, but Bunuel's films are a necessary evil. They are the perfect counterbalance to obedient conventional cinema. With his dry humor and weird antics, I adore Bunuel, the wonderful lecher, cheerful and lovable in his eagerness to offend.

Terms of Endearment (1983)

2009-08-17T11:21:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/17/09

Terms of Endearment is the perfect “spiders stratagem.” It's a well refined lie, a remarkable unprecedented achievement in manipulation. Director James L. Brooks weaves a web of enviable humanity and catches the audience blindsided in a puddle of tears, rubbing their eyes and forced to remark, “I can relate to those characters.” To admit that it is a tearjerker, and worthy of winning best picture, is to acknowledge that it was extremely well executed and has many dupes.
Terms of Endearment pokes and prods at our emotions with calculated precision (Micheal Gore's score assaults our tear ducts relentlessly). It tickles our funny bone with a touch of slapstick: when Shirley MacLaine, as the mid-50's mother, slips and falls while ogling Jack Nicholson, her impressionable neighbor, or when Nicholson's hand gets stuck in MacLaine's bra. It also has quick wit that walks a fine line of biting without leaving teeth marks. But Terms of Endearment mostly relies on humor defined by the characters' persona: MacLaine as Aurora is funny in embarrassment when her childish mom-paranoia and dilapidated overly proper libido are exposed. Nicholson plays Garret Breedlove with non-threatening drunkenness and potbelly charm. Debra Winger, as Aurora's daughter Emma, is endearing with her dorky crackle-laugh and a baby producing machine earthiness. The actors, including Jeff Daniels as Emma's innocent, simple-minded husband, and John Lithgow as a understanding adulterer, all rise above the film's pink gloss. Their wonderful performances make the film watchable for anyone, including non-dupes.
But back to the issue at hand. Terms of Endearment masks itself as honorable, honest, genuine benevolent empathy. It pretends to show “real” people in their true form, encountering love and sadness unexpectedly through life's spontaneity. But the film mistakes the natural unpredictable movement of life for over-eager shabby jumping. It starts with Emma's birth, then leaps to marriage, then to disease, then to death. And the characters, though lovable, reflect an ideal, made for TV bunch. They have only virtues and adorable good hearted faults. We'd all like to believe that our worst quality is that we care too much, or that we're too protective of our children.
James L. Brooks panders to the audience by depicting characters that, no matter what, are innocent, living in the world that's sometimes inexplicably harsh. Nicholson as Breedlove drinks but only enough to bang his head once and act funny. Aurora is stern but not enough to turn any men away. And then all of a sudden there's Emma's cancer. It comes so abruptly and in such an uninspired way, as if to say “Gotcha! See how unpredictable life can be?” I guess I'm supposed to think, “Wow, I hope I'm not taking my loved ones for granted.” But instead I'm thinking, is this all they could think of? It's true, cancer does unexpectedly kill in real life. But in Terms of Endearment James L. Brooks' use of that fact is grotesquely exploitive. He intends to start the waterworks and have word get around, sending flocks of semi-masochistic, stressed women in need of a cry, to the theater.
And yet I'll admit, Terms of Endearment is an effective trick, tolerable for a non-dupe because of its great performances. I'm proud to say I sat through the ending and never shed a tear. Maybe I have a heart that's cold as ice, or perhaps I saw through Terms of Endearment's web of masterful manipulation.

Diner (1982)

2009-08-16T09:48:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/15/09

Diner is a lukewarm, humdrum “Happy Days” retread of 1950's nostalgia (a twinkle in the eye, tilted head smile and a depressing sigh included) with cute little bits of the obligatory coffee talk - sports and music, “Sinatra or Mathis?” over a burger and fries and your hot date over apple pie - generic (the eventual sitcom pilot quality) plot devices and reminiscing good old fashioned wholesome guy love.
Diner is set in 1959 Baltimore, where five high school buddies, now in their early twenties, still meet at their favorite diner, sit at their favorite table and eat their favorite dish to forget women, money and adulthood. They bicker and finish each other's thoughts like old married couples, talking about music, movies, and the Colts, recalling the prom and past girlfriends. They cling to their boyishness and boo-hoo their evolving relationships. All five have “growing pains.” Eddie (Steve Guttenberg) is on the verge of marriage but getting cold feet. “Shrevie” (Daniel Stern) is already in the sexless arguing stage of marriage, fighting about how to organize his record collection with his wife (Ellen Barkin). “Boogie,” played with a suave desperation by Mickey Rourke is a hair dresser by day, law student by night and knee-deep in gambling debts. Fenwick, played with inebriated tears of despair by Kevin Bacon, is a whiny failure who “rejected the family business” and is now living on his parents allowance. And Billy, played with muted deadpan personality by Timothy Daly, has impregnated a girl he loves but who doesn't love him.
But as the boys say, “At least we have the diner.” It's their safe haven from the frightening outside world (though we see it as basically harmless), and their uncertain futures. They cherish relaxed guy love at the diner and fear conversations with their wives. They cherish Sweet Smell of Success and fear The Seventh Seal.
Barry Levinson in his directing debut immediately regresses to childhood memory-schmaltz, drifting into his adolescence of growing up in Baltimore, playing sophomoric pranks and watching game shows on a black and white TV. Although Levinson captures the sadness of fading teenage innocence - becoming an adult and feeling uncomfortable and inept cruising for girls or married and bored - behind an uninspired story, lacking snap, crackle or pop, the genuinely amusing dialogue falls flat in the lurking mist of homesick melancholy.

Nixon (1995)

2009-08-15T10:00:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/14/09

Nixon is a captivating epic muddle of conspiracy theories and the “beast,” a huge biopic of Nixon and the victims of his presidential scandals, battered faces and tortured souls played by an extraordinary cast. Nixon is also a distinctly personal tragedy, a mix of Macbeth and Kane playing out in Oliver's universe, “Citizen Stone.”
Stone's is a complex, frightening movie world, a treacherous “beast” with wars fought in wild, angry jungles (remember Oliver Stone's Platoon), TV News and Animal Planet porn destroying innocent teenage minds (remember Natural Born Killers), a ferociously competitive financial market (remember Wall Street and Michael Douglas saying “greed is good”) and a corrupt political system of communists and assassinations (remember JFK and the magic bullet). “Citizen Stone” is Oliver's paranoid delusional nightmare. He tickles our fancy for borderline absurd conspiracy theories, dazzling, awesomely thrilling while also vindictive and menacing, deeply personal, begrudging, stubborn, and desperate to be controversial. It's uniquely Oliver. With Nixon he's found a perfect playmate, the ideal antihero, awkward loser. Oliver's Nixon played by Anthony Hopkins is a strange complicated mess of emotions and Freudian psycho-drama: his blessed mother, father's “woodshed,” and two brothers' deaths lurk over his shoulders. They share a “me against the world,” spit in the face of the east coast elite mentality, a bitterness and hatred for the establishment.
In Nixon Oliver Stone also invokes basic Shakespearian tragedy and Wellesian Kane. This Nixon has a tragic flaw and a “rosebud,” smoking gun, hidden secret. The film is set during the last few months of Nixon's presidency as he drinks, pops pain pills and completely unravels. Hunched over in the Lincoln room, Nixon listens to the infamous Watergate tapes and remembers his life.
We watch, through flashbacks, Nixon's rough childhood, his rocky political life of embarrassments and a building jealous hatred for JFK and the Kennedys. Oliver Stone paints Nixon as a man in constant struggle, a victim of the “beast,” the political environment, his childhood, the pressure to succeed, but also a victim of his own insecurity. He was ugly, poor, awkward, and desperate to be loved, drawing more and more inward as he was rejected, never letting himself be vulnerable. So he became a tireless worker, a bull of a fighter, battling his way to the top. But as the public rejected him he became more and more bitter which only fueled his crotchety, corrupt villain persona. He realizes his self fulfilling prophecy: “Others may hate you. But those who hate you don't win unless you hate them. And then you destroy yourself.” Nixon despised JFK because he saw in him everything he wanted to be: rich, attractive, personable and loved. He says in front of JFK's portrait in the White House, “When they look at you they see what they want to be. When they look at me they see what they are.”
Oliver Stone portrays Nixon as a complicated human being instead of a caricature. He also captures the mystery in Nixon. In the “Citizen Stone” world, Nixon is also a fascinating, Kane-esque enigma, always seeming to be holding back a deep dark “something.” He's a black hole of emotions but a treasure chest of juicy secrets. Maybe the 18 ½ minutes of missing tape hold the answers.
Nixon is as much about Oliver Stone as anything but he surely doesn't deserve all the credit. Though he doesn't look or sound like Nixon, Anthony Hopkins does a fantastic job of depicting Nixon's internal pain and suffering, his tension but also his enormous presence. Nixon also includes a marvelous supporting cast. Joan Allen as Pat Nixon, James Woods and J. T. Walsh as Halderman and Ehrlichman, Paul Sorvino as Henry Kissinger, Bob Hoskins as J. Edgar Hoover, and Powers Boothe as Alexander Haig are all spectacular. And Robert Richardson's photography is beautiful.
Nixon is now a fascinating, tragic enigma, a tortured soul in my mind and never again merely a crotchety, corrupt villain.

Detective Story (1951)

2009-08-13T13:48:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/12/09

“Never mind a doctor, get a priest.” Detective Story has a foul, rotten milk, stewing in the fridge, chunky and yellow, grimy aroma: first setting me back in my chair, cringing, then only tingling my nostrils. Its squalid B-Movie cop melodrama reeks of a rank stale cheese passion: everyone has a rap-sheet, there are criminals, tramps, and officers bemoaning the “crummy system.” The sizzling misanthropic stench and gamy taste simmers and spoils but eventually becomes interesting tart.
The movie has a scrapping, clawing, tearing up dirt method, searching desperately for significance and barely breaking the surface, but making for an exorbitant romp.
Detective Jim McLeod's (Kirk Douglas) demons are drudged up during the course of one raucous day at the precinct. McLeod is a bloated stiff, his belt tightened to puff up his chest (a perfect Douglas role). He fancies himself a one man street sweeper, ridding the big NYC of crooks, sticking to his principles, never letting anyone off the hook. He huffs and puffs, steam shoots out of his ears, he stomps around, pounds his fists on his desk at work and then heads home to his “immaculate wife” who is blonde, thin, gorgeous, and saintly (Eleanor Parker).
But underneath McLeod has untold fears. And when he discovers that his untouchable wife has a shady past that includes premarital sex and abortion, his craggy exterior begins to crack and clichés burst out of his seams, cluttering up the Styrofoam, cardboard, blatantly fake set. William Wyler ramps up the ridiculous and Douglas leads gaudy, but absorbing tangy cheese acting. We learn McLeod had one bad case, “when he was just a rookie.” His father was a “hardass.” His tough bravado is only for show, to hide his inner torment. McLeod pulls his hair out, envisioning his wife with another man, threatening to kill himself and saying with a creepy seriousness, “I'd give my soul to take out my brain, hold it under the faucet and wash away the dirty pictures.”
As much as Detective Story stinks it has zesty bellowing exuberance. And within the cloud of odor, Douglas' relentless yelling and the look and feel of overwrought cheapness, I think director William Wyler stumbled upon the patch job of an actual character. McLeod dreads a murky world and lack of control so he neatly packs everything into black and white, good and evil terms but as the movie warns, he is only “digging his own grave” of disappointment.
So I admire, or at least value Detective Story. It doesn't pack things together nicely, it scrapes together flames of overripe passion, lets emotions run wild and the result is an exhilarating, if sometimes disagreeable or laughable, experience.

The Blue Angel (1930)

2009-08-12T13:48:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/11/09

The Blue Angel is combination of silent expressionism - stacked pointy houses (reminiscent of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari), dim street corners, every frame suffocated by darkness grasping for light, featuring Emil Jannings (of F.W. Murnau's The Last Laugh and Faust's fame) - and a Josef Von Sternberg, Marlene Dietrich (of Shanghai Express and The Scarlet Empress) sensuous, sultry, libidinous talkie. One star emerged and the other had his final hurrah. Emil Jannings got top billing, the silent German film star famous for an overacting lively visage, brooding, mournful as the sad sack in The Last Laugh. But Marlene Dietrich with just one sarcastic, baiting glance, strutting around in her panties singing “Falling in Love Again” stole the show.
Jannings plays Emmanuel Rath, a craggy college professor: sour, abrupt and authoritative. He cracks the whip on his rowdy students with a sadomasochists' delight. When he learns from his teacher's pet that his students spend their nights enjoying a peep show at The Blue Angel, he charges down to the Vaudevillian club to confront them. Rath wades through a nylon sheath and a fog of smoke to arise in the dressing room where he meets Lola Lola (Marlene Dietrich). Her casual fleshiness and smoldering voice scream raunchy depraved sex (without love or commitment). She prances around the room, toys with the professor, showing a leg, pouting then bubbling (like Louise Brooks in Pandora's Box) with a mocking callous but playful tone. She effortlessly breaks his rough exterior and he immediately becomes her lap dog. Rath and Lola Lola get married, which seems somewhat implausible although at a few moments Lola shows signs of compassion for Rath. He reluctantly starts traveling with the bawdy show and eventually is peddling lewd pictures of his wife and getting dressed in full clown costume having eggs cracked over his head. Rath mopes and stays silent as he watches his wife sexually taunt and humiliate him, absorbing sorrow and pain, forever trapped under the Dietrich spell (reminding me of the torturous ending to “Caligari”).
In The Blue Angel I witnessed the perfect combination of two remarkable landmarks. Marlene Dietrich burst onto the screen as tempting and marvelous as ever and her salacious voice (in an English or German version) for the first time tantalized the ear. She and Josef Von Sternberg were beginning to master their craft. And at the same time I was pleased to see Emil Jannings make one last expressive silent sad face.

Young Mr. Lincoln (1939)

2009-08-11T11:18:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/10/09

As a result of my movie temperament being warped by the current slam bang brand of cinema, at least two boobs and a punch in the face per 30 minutes (I'm still recovering from Natural Born Killers), my first impression of Young Mr. Lincoln and most John Ford movies is that they are dragging blah. Young Mr. Lincoln's astute patience and even delivery plays flat and artless. The overly folksy “Lincoln” is commercial Americana, like bland campaign propaganda: Henry Fonda in full make-up, suit and top hat chops wood, eats pie, plays a Jew's Harp and tells stories of cattle and “the cabin” to overall-wearing, straw-chewing midwesterners. But with multiple viewings or careful consideration a John Ford film slowly penetrates the psyche (I found myself fervidly arguing that Abe Lincoln is the greatest U. S. President in history), splitting my depraved sensibilities with its saintly, calm naturalism. Its depth becomes apparent.
Although Henry Fonda (not a favorite actor of mine) once again tilts his head and looks to the skies with a pious self-assurance like a deity, never engaging the audience, in this case he's perfect as legendary hero President Lincoln. At the same time his overpowering goodness and morality are thankfully not shoved in our face to the point of being nauseating. Fonda as Lincoln has a blind confidence and sense of reason. His witty remarks and down home chats are refreshing, making him a ideal trustworthy politician.
The skill in Ford's direction and Fonda's acting is in creating a noble but nuanced figure. Watch closely Lincoln's awkwardness around women and Illinois bourgeoisie. At heart he is just a bashful country boy with a bumpkin attitude masking a religious mentality and inherent wisdom, speaking the honest truth with the utmost clarity (at one point to soften an angry mob). Watch closely for the appearance of fear and indecision when he is alone with his thoughts by the river. He seems distressed as if he is shouldering a great burden. In the final scene when a lovable drunkard asks him “ain't you comin' Abe?” Lincoln replies, “No, I think I'll go on to the top of that hill,” (not as cheesy as it sounds).
Young Mr. Lincoln may often seem overly simplistic in portraying democracy and mid 1800's America. At times it may seem boring. But even if you've been forever jaded by the sexploitive, bloody macho porn of CGI infested, washed out 3D and IMAX modern cinema, take some time to think, watch “Lincoln” again, watch The Searchers, My Darling Clementine and all of John Fords films again, because they're subtle, enduring and sublime.

Major Dundee (1965)

2009-08-09T10:12:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/8/09

Major Dundee is a fascinating cluttered disaster of drunken Sam Peckinpah. Columbia Pictures and Charlton Heston loved Ride the High Country (1962), Peckinpah's first film, and decided to lump a sizable budget, a Harry Fink script, and a feeling of flexibility on the shoulders of the tormented genius. The boozing, coarse director ventured south to a remote dusty Mexican hole, threw the original script in the trash and began shooting, shifting the movie's focus to a morose character study of Major Dundee (Charlton Heston). But as the spending skyrocketed and rumblings of Peckinpah infuriating, torturing the cast, and being too wasted to direct emerged, Columbia cut funding in half. The production rushed to an awkward finish. The released studio version got negative reviews and flopped at the box office. But in a cloud of studio cuts and production turbulence, Major Dundee is still full of bits of classic Peckinpah and is an interesting representation of the director's career.
The movie begins at the sight of a massacre of Union soldiers, women and children by Apache Indians. Major Dundee, the goat of the Union's loss at the Battle of Gettysburg, exiled to the Mexican border, decides to put together a troupe of soldiers and confederate prisoners, including his former best friend and rival, Captain Tyreen (Richard Harris) to hunt down the Indians.
The early passages of the movie run smoothly but painstakingly slow, progressing like an epic (I've read Peckinpah's original cut was over 4 hours long). Dundee and Tyreen pussyfoot around, conversing intently, their lines crawling from their mouths then floating above their heads clearly indicating “to be referenced later,” before they decide to “ride together.” The first few scenes are boring and bloated, the soldiers singing rah-rah songs, but hint at a meaningful payoff (like the overly happy scenes in The Big Heat).
Dundee, Tyreen and company head down to the expansive Mexican wilderness (photographed very well by Sam Leavitt) setting up patented Peckinpah themes: the macho brotherhood of battered men and their “sacred word.”
Dundee is at first trimmed (Heston's chin lathered in aftershave) and confident, seeking glory, but suppressing the feeling of impotency and heading into a dangerous jungle. Dundee seems to be shaping into a compelling character. Charlton Heston's bullheaded machismo and Richard Harris' effeminate British demeanor make for an interesting love affair. And I also found it intriguing that the American soldiers, armed with guns and cannons would struggle to defeat the Indians' bows, arrows and intimate knowledge of the terrain.
But as the film entered its second hour it became increasingly choppy and uncomfortable to watch. Lines from Heston, Harris and the supporting cast fall on dead air (like I'm missing key information, a scene or two, lost in a cut maybe). The action scenes are jerky (definitely not Peckinpah). And worst of all there are 20 to 30 minutes of a hapless love interest. Dundee meets a woman in Mexico, Teresa, played by Senta Berger. She is dull and mundane. Her scenes are painful to watch. I don't think you can call what Berger does acting. She just exists with no personality and big breasts.
With Sam Peckinpah plastered, well off the wagon, working for an apprehensive studio, Major Dundee was destined for failure. Peckinpah would just have to wait to make his drunken masterpiece.

I Heart Huckabees (2004)

2009-08-07T13:56:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/609

I Heart Huckabees is bawdy slapstick and unrelenting farce mixed with entry level existentialism. It's full of wacky, hilarious little bits like when Lily Tomlin asks Jason Schwartzman, “Have you ever transcended time and space?” and he responds “Yes. No. Time not space. No I don't know what your talking about.” I Heart Huckabees throws philosophical gibberish about “the big everything” and “everything is the same even if it's different” against the wall hoping they stick but fortunately never taking any of it seriously. It's like watching the Three Stooges or the Marx brothers babble Nietzsche. The balloon to the face, muddy sex, stupefying comedy made me laugh and chuckle but left me mostly bewildered (sometimes I scrunched my lip and brow in a “whatchu talkin' bout Willis” facial expression).
The story progresses like a mad sprint, hard to follow, full of holes, leaving the details and the ideas in the dust ending with a celebratory “I don't get it” and all the pretty couples united. Describing it will take a first class effort on my part.
Okay.....there's this guy, Albert (Jason Schwartzman), who is an environmentalist, or at least he talks a lot about saving a marsh and he once planted a tree in the middle of a parking lot. He's also a poet and a sentimental fool writing about his favorite rock with the timeless line “you rock. Rock.” He is confused, very confused and semi-seriously frustrated. So he goes to see the “Existential Detectives” because......he's depressed, confused, frustrated? No. Because he wonders about these coincidences in his life, that involve a tall African doorman and a Jessica Lange photograph and he wants to know what it all means.
Detectives Bernard (Dustin Hoffman) and Vivian (Lily Tomlin) are hired, pro bono, to do a full scale, 24-hour study of Albert's “crisis”. They do complete surveillance (“even in the bathroom”) and wiretapping. They follow him around, hide conspicuously in bushes or outside windows, peeking at Albert, taking notes, looking silly. The ultimate reward, so they say, is deep, trippy total self awareness where “everything you could ever want or be you have and are,” and things magically come apart in little 2D squares, relieving you of stress and the feeling of responsibility. And I guess then, for Albert, happiness.
As the investigation begins Albert starts to unravel, tearing apart the world and his arch nemesis Brad Stand (Jude Law) with a machete while in his happy place. Bernard and Vivian decide to introduce Albert to his existential support group buddy, Tommy (played very well by Mark Wahlberg), so they'll both have a breakthrough. Tommy is struggling with the temptation of the dark side, nihilism, where everything is nothing, and nothing matters. The rest of the movie is a strange journey of weird humor and a shouting match between nihilism and existentialism in an effort to get Albert to reach “who cares” bliss.
I Heart Huckabees has philosophical ramblings with little depth and base level humor but a wonderful air of whimsy. When I think of I Heart Huckabees I have a brain freeze. There's an infinite void of confusion, and all I can remember from watching were my many laughs.

Natural Born Killers (1994)

2009-08-06T12:31:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/5/09

Natural Born Killers is a religious experience for psychopaths and an angry rant against the TV generation. It's a twisted sitcom, a demented Robert Crumb cartoon, a pulp novel, a trashy newspaper and an acid trip. Oliver Stone's direction - hand held restless, gyrating camera, jumping quick cuts, black and white and color, tilted weird angles, fish-eye distorted curvy lenses, hip music, a river of blood, guns blazing, - is like a Quentin Tarantino movie on crack (I wasn't surprised to learn Tarantino wrote the story but not the script). It's every horrifying, gut wrenching, sex and violence exploitation scene stylized and put to Dr. Dre's smoothest beats and the banging of Nine Inch Nails. It's an unbelievable experience. It's a relentless assault on the eyes, like a thousand punches to the face, enough titillating elements to make you want to hurl. I felt myself sinking, lower and lower, feeling more and more empty as my senses were endlessly rampaged. It's a truly unnerving, dehumanizing feeling.
In Natural Born Killers Oliver Stone satirizes our world of the OJ Simpson trial and Ted Bundy. He pronounces every warped TV junkie child of Generation X a demon born for destruction, sick and deranged from watching Discovery Channel animal humping, ratings obsessed news, wars, and Kung Fu, westerns, and action movies (especially the ending of The Wild Bunch). Everyone is a killer or a corpse, crying inside, popping “E” and smoking weed, high on slam bang TV, blurting music lyrics, sitcom platitudes and reciting movie lines. Charles Manson is our “king.” It's a horrible scary wild hell.
Natural Born Killers is a million crazy things thrown into one. But at its heart it's a 1990's, shot gun wielding, frenzied, insane, perverted Bonnie and Clyde. We follow Mickey (Woody Harrelson) and Marley Knox (Juliette Lewis) as they go on a killing spree across rural America, devastating diners, grocery stores and gas stations, having sex in motels and their truck. They murder everyone in sight but always leave one person alive to tell their tale, making them a big hit, on the cover of Time, a favorite among rebellious teens.
Their journey of love, death and TV is strange and fascinating. The imagery is as mesmerizing as disorienting and haunting. Oliver Stone ventures into the depths of total mid 90's, self awareness. But in the end I was left with many questions and little to think about. Oliver Stone extensively ponders the TV zombie's mind and the result is tired hypothesis. The Knox duo carve their demonic, grim reaper, Javier Bardem from No Country for Old Men, place in the world mimicking TV slaughters because......... Marley was molested by her father (Rodney Dangerfield), Mickey's father committed suicide, “killing is pure” and no one is innocent, they're too jaded to care. The world is “hell” because........everyone has seen too many boobs, sex, blood, and sodomy on TV, not to mention, the media only cares about ratings.
Natural Born Killers is a unique masterpiece of style, unforgettable and impossible to ignore. But it contemplates and generalizes, searching the mind and finding clichés and emptiness.

The Small Back Room (1949)

2009-08-05T16:52:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/5/09

The Small Back Room is a drunken dream and a sober nightmare. It's an awkward messy treasure, a strange excursion by dynamic Technicolor duo Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger (of A Matter of Life and Death and The Red Shoes fame) into dark cramped character study with alcoholism and the bomb, sometimes seeming to lack film noir sense but always interesting and captivating.
This movie is a tale of two distinct ironically juxtaposed halves. The first is a confusing frustrating jumbled hallucination full of inexplicable experimental Wellesian camera angles: into a mirror, under a table, threw the legs, behind the back. Our hero, Sammy (David Farrar), a weaponry scientist for the British military working with the “back room gang,” is at this point on the wagon, but his life is spinning out of control. He's an unstable wreck, crippled by a broken foot and self-pity, without “guts” or nerve, brooding over his life. He's pathetic. Afraid to be left alone and afraid to take chances, he relies on his lover and secretary Susan (Kathleen Byron) to keep him sober. In one scene he pleads, “Tell me I can have a drink.” In another, Sammy sits alone, waiting for Susan next to his lone bottle of whiskey, sweating, rubbing his face, tugging his collar as the tick tock of the clock gets louder and louder. His bottle of pain pills crashes to the floor. Suddenly he's hunched over under the peaked ceiling, the camera tilted accentuating deep shadows (reminding me of The Night of the Hunter), then surrounded by hundreds of tiny clocks, and a gigantic bottle of whiskey.
Sammy and Susan frequent a jazzy bar where Sammy often gives puzzling unexpected monologues, rambling and muttering odd babble. He tells Susan, “You've got it all worked out in the way women always have. They don't worry about anything except being alive or dead. Being dead to them means beginning to smell. Yes, you take it and make what you want of it.” Sammy sober sounds like an incoherent lush.
Susan finally gets fed up and leaves Sammy. Distressed and alone, Sammy goes on a drinking binge and trashes his apartment. The next morning he gets a call from the military telling him they need him to disarm a bomb. Sammy douses his face and gets a second wind. His buzz gives him a steady hand and confidence. He disarms the bomb, takes a promotion that gives him power and responsibility. Then Susan comes running back to him.
On the wagon Sammy and the movie is confused, boorish and fidgety (though still interesting) and off the wagon everything is peachy. Sammy is strong and in control. The movie runs smooth and steady. At the end Susan says, “Sammy, have a drink.”

Prizzi's Honor (1985)

2009-08-05T10:59:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/4/09

Prizzi's Honor is a warm, funny Mafia contractor's lullaby and a smooth, creamy portrait, washed in watercolor, with hits and kidnappings, and a switchblade or silenced pistol under our pillow never reaching a fever pitch but instead lulling us into sweet dreams. Prizzi's Honor is a nice tune, a pretty picture, a farcical satire, but above all a wonderful love story.
Our two love birds are Jack Nicholson as Charley Partanna, the regular guy turned Brooklyn mob boss who takes names so he can mail every busboy and photographer he encounters a ten dollar bill, and Kathleen Turner as Irene Walker, the femme fatale assassin. They first spot each other at a wedding which was scheduled as Mafia alibi for a murder. Charley and Irene share a dance and then Irene suddenly vanishes. Charley finds her in Los Angeles, tells her “I love you,” looking just dumb enough to mean it, and then sleeps with her. They seem a match made in heaven. Eventually they get married and decide to work together in Charley's new assignment: kidnapping a swindling bank executive.
The abduction is a hilarious and skillfully crafted. Irene, hidden behind a corner, looking suave holding her magnum gently against a plastic baby, throws the doll in the air, expecting the bank executive to lunge for it, instead it falls to the floor. An innocent woman unexpectedly arrives on an elevator. Irene promptly shoots her between the eyes with cold blooded efficiency as Charlie knocks out the target. Irene and Charley, dragging the unconscious man, feel closer then ever.
Later Irene and Charley find out the innocent bystander was a police commissioner's wife. The police decide as a point of moral principal to quit taking kick backs, bribes, and quit turning a blind eye to illegal betting, pimps and prostitutes until the Mafia give up the shooter. Charley and Irene are filled with paranoia, greed, and a killer's mentality but they always stay connected.
Jack Nicholson is great as Charley Partanna (though I found his mob goon impression, scrunched face, puckered lip “uh” talking annoying). Kathleen Turner is absolutely fantastic. She is the first actress, or co-star to truly match Nicholson's screen hogging. In fact at times she is a more intriguing, dominant presence. They are spectacular together. Charley seems gullible, but also an efficient, level headed criminal and Irene has a scheming smile, lying eyes but appearing desperate enough to leave Charley (and the audience) always uncertain.
Prizzi's Honor is a movie with a great attention to detail. John Huston is the ultimate professional for the job, showing little signs of age. His direction has calm patience, never descending into cheap gangster movie clichés, keeping a consistent lush, alluring vein. It progresses swaying with whimsy, quiet, but with a charming black comic sarcasm in portraying the mafia (watch for the anti Brando “Don” played by William Hickey, old and confused). And most of all Prizzi's Honor is the perfect assassin's love story, ending as it should (minus the final minute) with the two killers staring tenderly into each others eyes as they hurl their final collective bullets and daggers.

Radio Days (1987)

2009-08-04T14:29:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 8/3/09

Oh the sadness of fading memories. I wish we could return to the good old days when we laughed and played and danced together to our favorite radio programs, when rainy days, glowing snow, and dirty rooftops surrounded by neon lights were beautiful, when we were all truly happy. Music plays in our head as we remember our wondrous childhood when we cheered substitute teachers, peeped on sexy middle aged neighbors, scampered around town with our friends and ran from our belt, pot and pan wielding parents. And all the memories, the songs, the laughs, the characters, wacky or somber mesh with clarity and weave together in our minds at a New Years Eve party: the day that we realize time flies, our lives will change, nostalgia begins and the memories from the previous year start to slowly deteriorate. Oh how sad. But should we really shed any tears reminiscing over such forgettable, bland stories (above) shown in Woody Allen's Radio Days?
By 1987 Woody Allen had reached the point of arrogance and confidence as a result of fans and critics telling him he was “brilliant” that he felt the need to enlighten everyone on the remarkable adolescence that made the “genius,” like Federico Fellini before him. The only difference is that Fellini's ode to his childhood, Amarcord (1973) included flickering, radiant color and Nina Rota music to back interesting stories. Fellini painted a weird, unique portrait of the freak show, Mussolini-filled circus that made the strange artist. Allen creates a sparkling romantic vision and a memorable soundtrack glazing over banal vignettes.
Allen wrangled in a star studded talented cast of his favorite actors but unfortunately gave none of them captivating parts to play. Seth Green plays Allen's kid persona. Julie Kavner and Micheal Tucker play the New York city Jewish parents predictably whiny and arguing. Dianne Wiest plays an aunt looking for love and stumbling upon a married man, a coward and a closet homosexual. And Mia Farrow plays up and coming actress Sally White naive, dumb founded annoying with a piercing high pitched shrill voice. There are also cameo appearances by Dianne Keaton as a New Year's singer, Danny Aiello, Jeff Daniels as Biff Baxter and Wallace Shawn as the Masked Avenger.
Radio Days has one or two genuinely funny anecdotes (the baseball pitcher with bad aim, an itchy trigger finger but with plenty of heart). Woody Allen has a good understanding of the hue and mood of the Amarcord style nostalgia. He also shows a sincere love for his past avoiding the temptation to set scores and point fingers. But despite Allen's skill and intelligence to make the definitive statement of a love for himself work, he just doesn't have enough intriguing or humorous stories. I could cry like a baby at the idea of fading memories in Radio days but the USO show, kissing his crush, drooling over the new hot teacher, the neighbor that has a nervous breakdown and the New Years party..... are all coming of age, Hollywood cliché and not worth my tears.

The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973)

2009-08-03T13:16:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/31/09

Robert Mitchum seems as if he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders at all times: towering, intimidating, yet his drooping eyes cowering, repressing his innermost thoughts, letting out only baritone mumbles, the nuances of his face revealing exhaustion, weariness, and vulnerability. In the Friends of Eddie Coyle, Mitchum is given the perfect character in the perfect setting. Eddie Coyle is Robert Mitchum. Early 1970's Boston is Eddie Coyle, which is Robert Mitchum. They are dissipated voids, latching on to tired conventions, appearing calm, safe and under control, but masking utter confusion.
Robert Mitchum as Eddie Coyle saunters and smirks, puckers his lips, rolls his eyes, sits alone always seeming to loathe company. When joined, he speaks only when spoken to, replying with short vague answers, either out of breath or unsure of what to say, sometimes responding swiftly as if he's trying to end the conversation as fast as possible, sometimes waiting and waiting as if the conversation comes second to his thoughts. He never shows the want, only the bitter need, always acting like he was forced to talk, or work, or live. Eddie Coyle is a simple hoodlum, past his prime, decaying, ready to hang it up, ready to deal. After a lifetime of small, petty thefts, working up to escape (to Florida), he sinks and sinks into insignificance. Caught in a trial, facing a few years in prison, Coyle struggles with the idea of ratting on his friends to save his hide. He's an old school gentleman's crook, attached to Boston, relying on friends, lost among drugs, feds, machine guns in a world where everyone is guilty and everyone rats.
Eddie is broken and battered, peddling dozens of stolen guns, walking over, sitting down and looking a federal agent in the eye, his way of begging to bargain out of trouble. At first he tries to be clever, only giving the agent information that he knows is useless (informing him of a robbery that is minutes from occurring), but by the end when he is most desperate Coyle is forced to break his only rule, to never give up friends.
Eddie is a stranger in a new world of crime. Mitchum is an actor, born and bred in an era of westerns, hunks, and film noir, now an oddity, washed-up, old cheese, among hippies and new wave, fast pace film making. Although forever under-appreciated, he is the heart and soul of all his movies: fascinating, merciful, with extraordinary depth. The Friends of Eddie Coyle, is tempered, cool, smooth, methodical, not exciting but extremely engrossing simply because of Robert Mitchum. I could watch The Friends of Eddie Coyle hundreds of times, over and over again just to study Mitchum. He has the most interesting face I've seen in the movies.
Robert Mitchum is perfectly placed in an early 70's Boston fall: a distressed city, a hot spot for racism and prejudice, yet blooming, colorful leaves, a beautiful backdrop, people letting out pent up anger and tension at Bruins games.
Eddie Coyle, Robert Mitchum move through the Boston streets, the wind blowing in their face, with a nonchalance, hurt, slowly dying, fading, but in a confident comfortable unison.

Aliens (1986)

2009-07-31T12:25:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/30/09

James Cameron's Aliens is a tasty regurgitation of Ridley Scott's Alien (1979) retaining all of our favorite ingredients from the original but lacking the fresh, smooth, rich purely sensational aura of new. Watching Aliens is like riding a roller-coaster a second time with the ups and downs, twists and turns: a raucous, impossible to catch your breath thriller. It's an extraordinarily faithful sequel with a more vivid, ghastly close-up of the alien, a lot more Sigourney Weaver as Ripley, even expanding on the first films fascinating underbelly.
The methods are cliché and the journey is predictable and yet Aliens is an undeniable experience. Ripley joins a crew ship of soldiers heading to the dreaded alien filled KV-426 rock (the set of the first movie) as a “consultant.” The cocky, self-declared “ultimate bad ass” troop venture into the alien haven talking a big game, confident, ignoring Ripley's warning, packed with big, bulky guns. Of course, they are no match for movies most evil, destructive creepy crawly bug. Ripley and the few remaining soldiers resolve to cut bait and “nuke the site for morbid” (only 45 minutes in, with still half a dozen people other then Ripley alive, obviously that plan was laughable). Just as they're leaving, their ship is attacked by aliens leaving them stranded.
I know which characters are going to die and when (everyone by the end, or when they wander off alone, except Weaver and children or pets). I know what the aliens look like having seen the first movie, and how they kill; they lunge, flipping and flopping, popping up from the ground, slithering around vents and ducts: acid blood, yucky, slimy, with a tongue that bites. I know from the first film that there will be at least one human to fear - the backstabber – although I also know he'll eventually get his comeuppance. Aliens mimics the original movie's story in almost every way, even the ending: the countdown, she barely escapes the exploding rock, exhale.....but oh wait, there's an alien on board the ship! I saw everything coming. And yet...... It scared the daylights out of me. My stomach was tumbling, rumbling, I could hear the swishing and swashing of fluids, my ear-drums were ringing, goosebumps, everything tingling: awesome. I love the movies.
But I sat back and thought.......Those weapons looked so stupid and ugly. Much of the movie looked like a cheap knock-off of Halo. Some of the acting and the dialogue were awful. One of the characters was so dumb and annoying, whining and whining, begging to die and yet I waited and waited. He threatened to halt the movie in its tracks. Finally he got eaten and I was relieved. The 154 minutes flew by but it dragged to the limits explosions, guns and sticky aliens, and banged through the characters. The first movie gave me sufficient inklings of the nature of the supporting cast which made me care more when they died. This movie brushes over the supporting players, leaving me with stereotype, cliché, throw-away inevitable corpses.
I thought more.... Aliens focuses on Ripley and that's what counts. The more screen time for Weaver the better. She's spectacular, the ideal female fire-wielding hero. In Aliens the depth of her character is enriched. She's the queen bee of the strength, the leader, the mother, the captain, doing battle with an unstoppable villain, meeting a perfect match. From the first film Ripley begins a love affair with the alien. In the final scenes of the first movie she faced the alien in close quarters: Weaver stripped down to her underwear with the alien lathered in goop lurking in the dark background. They have a strange intimate relationship, a mutual respect and hatred. When Ripley descends via elevator into the flickering depths among the aliens at the end of the sequel (claiming, she only wants to save the child), she licks her lips and smirks, salivating a last chance to stare eye to eye with the alien.
Aliens plays like a video game. It's a rowdy, rambunctious, slam bang roller-coaster regurgitation and it's undeniably fun.

Election (1999)

2009-07-30T15:39:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/29/09

One dreary morning at the beginning of my junior year, I reluctantly packed into a crowded auditorium to hear the obligatory speeches of the student body president candidates. I was forced to listen to microphone cracklings, “Is it on? It's on, okay.” and the incoherent ramblings of the “padding their resume, over achiever of the year” hopefuls. I sat, swarmed by blackberries and iphones, unable to breathe in the Axe Body Spray filled air, slumped over resting my head on my fist trying to catch a few extra z's. I looked up and noticed out of the corner of my eye a kid step to the podium who didn't fit my stereotype of candidates. Apparently he had previously been appointed to the student council and was running unopposed. He was little known but quick-witted with pent-up bitterness. Grabbing the microphone with confidence and an “I don't care” attitude, the kid described in detail how meaningless it is to be a student president, vice-president, counsel member and how my vote was pointless and that I “might as well not vote”. Of course the crowd of cynics, mad at their mommies and daddies (or something), hormones pumping through their blood stream, applauded, laughed and gave their hero a standing ovation. Then it was the presidential candidates' turn: the hyper workaholic, talkative, know-it-all girl, the football player who gets cheerleader cheers at the beginning of his speech and sympathy cheers after he mumbles, shivers and holds the microphone too close to his mouth at the end, and then finally a speech by a smoker kid, running after what started as a joke amongst friends, seeming a redundant copy-cat in his rebellious tone.
I don't remember who I voted for, or if I voted, and I don't remember who won. But oh, how I love to reminisce. Election includes all my favorite cast of characters (the over achiever, the rebel, the jock) and understands how they act, rarely relying on teen-movie conventions (only one too many bj's). We are spared from the silly relationships, drunken parties, and stupid parents.
Election paints a cynical, glossy portrait of real schools. The teachers, including everyone's buddy, Jim McAllister (Mathew Broderick), come to school wearing their personal lives, crumbling marriages, and affairs on their sleeves. When the overly perky, c. b. (fans of House know what I mean) Tracy Flick (Reece Witherspoon, fantastic and delectably snotty) gets in an argument with a teacher, she threatens to call her lawyer mother. If the ambitious Flick loses the election, you can expect a flood of tears. The dim witted, former football player candidate, Paul (Chris Klein), who thanks god for his truck “and what I've been told is a big penis” will undoubtedly, out of the good of his heart, vote for Flick. An angry sophomore girl who we first meet in her room as she's kissing another girl will run for president for revenge, after her girlfriend dumped her in favor of her brother, the football player. When she gives her speech, she panders to the rebellious teen audience saying, “I'll destroy student government,” and voting is “stupid.” As a result, she gets suspended for three days, and although she says, “It's not like I'm a lesbian or anything. I'm attracted to the person. But it's just that all the people that I've ever been attracted to have been girls,” she will spend all of what she calls “paid vacation” watching the girls soccer team.
Though I'm not far removed from my junior year, Election is still spiffy, well groomed cliché, Hollywood laminated nostalgia: high school consisting only of attractive, 25 year old actors but with sharp satire and non-stop laughs.

Deliverance (1972)

2009-07-30T12:57:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/28/09

Deliverance is a masochist's dream: painful to watch and intentionally brutal from start to finish. When three yuppie amateurs from Atlanta, Ed (John Voight), Drew (Ronny Cox), and Bobby (Ned Beatty) join their friend, self-affirmed outdoors-man and adventurer, Lewis (Burt Reynolds) on a trip to the depths of rural uncivilized Georgia to surmount the whitewater rapids of the Chattanooga River, they encounter unspeakable terror. Crazy toothless hillbillies lurk around every corner. By the end of their horrible journey two men have killed local red-necks, one has drowned, and the other has been sexually assaulted.
Director John Boorman and James Dickey (who wrote the original novel and the screenplay) are in a desperate search for the significance of this horror story, bluntly exploring the suppressed sadism and homophobia of the macho man and the unpleasant, barbarism of nature but in the end lacking clarity. Boorman shows admirable courage and boldness in making Deliverance but unfortunately has made a movie without an audience, a movie that has little in redeeming value and at times is unwatchable. In his determination to show the fierce and the vulgar, Boorman lost sight of his message. What's left is incoherent brooding, Freudian sexual ambiguity, and platitude filled monologues about “the game of life” and being “one with nature.” Deliverance is a remarkably terrible journey for four men and incidentally, anyone watching. I sat stunned, wondering how this movie ever got made. Any potential male fans of conventional movie violence will hate the man on man, squealing like a pig, strapped against a tree at crotch level, sodomy scene. It's excessively revolting, disgusting, turning the masculine “no woman allowed” camping trip on its head.
Deliverance is if anything very memorable. It's often effectively thrilling watching our four men tumble down the river in their canoe. The photography is beautifully haunting with a chilling twangy bluegrass music atmosphere. The acting by the four stars is magnificent. Voight plays Ed as weary, vulnerable, and weirdly drooling over Lewis. Burt Reynolds is perfect as the wannabe hero. Ned Beatty is great as well as Ronny Cox as the voice of reason. And not to mention the awesome transcendent dueling banjos theme song. It's amazing to me, that in the muck of anti-rural southern sentiment and fear mongering, a simple banjo duet survives and becomes a big hit.
Deliverance is all in all a disastrous experience. The overly exploitive cruelty of the violence especially in the infamous rape scene left me gagging on my popcorn rather then pondering the savage nature of man.

Driving Miss Daisy (1989)

2009-07-28T11:19:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/27/09

Driving Miss Daisy is a pleasant surprise: a little cheesy, a little cliché but never descending into cheap melodrama and having the patience to share the quiet company of two wonderful people. Morgan Freeman as Hoke and Jessica Tandy as Miss Daisy are an absolute treat: aging but still ticking, enjoying simple pleasures and living simple lives, forced to accept each other, eventually building a special relationship. They move, as does the movie, at a slow pace with a calm demeanor and showing only small bursts of emotion: Hoke's high pitched laughter and Daisy's stubborn snickering. We watch the monotonous moments of their day – gardening, driving to the store, having dinner – but adore their lovely chemistry. She's a wealthy, Jewish widower going on 90 years old, living alone with her long time housekeeper Idella (Esther Rolle). After she crashes her car one morning, her concerned son, Boolie, played fantastically by Dan Ackroyd, hires Hoke to be her chauffeur. Daisy hates the idea, so Boolie warns but assures Hoke, “My mother's a little high strung. Now the fact is you'd be working for me. She can say anything she likes but she can't fire you.” At first Daisy yips and yaps at Hoke, criticizing him then ignoring him and refusing to let him drive her around town. Then slowly she warms up to Hoke. And after the death of Idella, Daisy admits to Hoke, “you're my only friend.” Daisy and Hoke are dependent on each other. As their bond gradually forms they subtly change as people. Daisy is forced to accept Hoke's help, relying on him as a companion, giving Hoke the respect he deserves, and also relinquishing her stubborn independence.
We watch Driving Miss Daisy observing Hoke and Daisy's small but lovable gestures to each other. We see them smile and laugh, or sneer and roll their eyes (Morgan Freeman also does this weird mouth thing like he's constantly chewing food). The story progresses naturally, showing their lives decaying with age, occasionally dangling cliché and manipulative narrative elements but then ignoring them gently and resisting the urge to become overly melodramatic, focusing instead on the characters. One night, Hoke and Daisy drive to Alabama, stop aside the road, when two stereotypical red-neck, intolerant police officers question Hoke about his license. I was expecting Hoke to get beaten, or end up in jail, but instead the police let Hoke and Daisy drive away. Later that evening Hoke pulled over and walked off in the dark to go to the bathroom. Daisy, worried and alone, cried for Hoke, then he appeared asking “yes miss Daisy.” Another day at the cemetery, Hoke reveals he can't read. Daisy stared at him perplexed, rather than giving him a hug, she bluntly tries to teach him.
Driving Miss Daisy is a great novelty, a true work of courage in Hollywood. It is slow, methodical, and patient. Don't expect big laughs or tears, or explosions or drama, expect a simple pleasure.

Risky Business (1983)

2009-07-27T12:46:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/26/09

Risky Business: an unbelievable accomplishment, I didn't know it was possible. Paul Brickmen, wacky tacky Tom Cruise, Rebecca De Mornay and company, have made a wholesome, bland, flat, lifeless movie about a 17 year old gyrating in his skivvies, flying around in a Porsche, becoming a whorehouse pimp, and having sex with a prostitute on a dirty subway. The script is smart and funny, the direction is stylish and efficient, the acting is relatively strong, and yet the movie is still so dull, trapped in a shell, unwilling to toy, jab, or titillate the audience. The movie moves quickly but lacks a joyous ride. In fact it sits still because it's predictable. We know it's too cute and clean to take chances. Each element, the actors, the style......lack a key trait that strips them of any possible edginess and strips the audience of uncertainty.
Joel (Tom Cruise) is our 17 year old boy wonder: Crew cut and colored shirt while around his parents - black shades, T-shirt and black blazer while around his call girls. At first he's just a timid, shy loser. He seems completely unwilling to risk his sterile life. But when his parents leave for a vacation and his friends suggest he say, “what the fu—” and have some fun, in a flash he's in a heap of trouble: a six foot tall manly looking prostitute named Vicki is knocking on the door (she's disgusting and exactly right), pimps and prostitutes are crowding his bedroom and stealing furniture. Risky Business has a classic Ferris Bueller's Day Off, teen movie construction - have as much fun, or get in as much trouble as possible, then have the house ready, spic and span, before your parents get home - except with more interesting elements: prostitutes, pimps and unprotected sex, oh my! And still, it's humdrum, commercial film making. It could have been a great, exploitive, trashy, but fun movie. Why wasn't it? Let's play the blame game.
Let's first consider the actors. Tom Cruise is our star. He smiles and winks, worries, mopes and whines, all at the right time, but never embarrassing himself, never looking stupid, desperate. His lust is a tease, his angry is a tizzy, his passion is semi-serious, mostly passionless. Although, for playing a teenager, he's not far off (they don't yet know how to show intensity, they haven't had enough experiences to be bitter and ornery). It's his supporting cast that deserves the bulk of my derision. Our co-star, Rebecca De Mornay, is Lana, the call girl who uses/falls in love with Joel. She's the most pristine looking, well mannered, innocent prostitute I've ever seen in a movie. She lacks an appearance or air of anguish and sleazy wisdom. The other bad performance (or bad casting) was Curtis Armstrong as the pimp. He just looks stupid and not at all threatening.
Next up, the direction. Brickmen made many decisions that left no room for ambiguity or suspense in the story, and he never forced his actors to get down and dirty, even in the superficial sex scenes. For example, we never see Lana scrape, claw, or look disheveled. She never fights with her pimp who she called “crazy.” After Joel is thrown into a river, we don't see him wet, and when he's angry we don't see him smash things, or act out. After a night of torture, Joel storms into Lana's apartment and gives her a hug, weeping. I threw my arms in the air, shook my head, saying to myself “that was SO lame.”
Finally I'll place some blame on the producers and distributors. Apparently they removed a melancholy ending in favor of a happy, all is well, one. No wonder I was left feeling cheated. The ending made me think there was no point to the entire movie because his “risky business” had no consequences.
Risky Business is so glossy and mainstream that it's easy to watch. It presents nothing that digs deep, taking no chances even with seemingly provocative material, that it's a template for future box-office hits and a warning for what's wrong with many movies.

Wag the Dog (1997)

2009-07-26T09:48:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/25/09

Wag the Dog is at its finest rousing, hilarious satire. I laughed and laughed: smart, funny, and SO true (only a little exaggerated). But after the first few reels the story stalled, the arc became clear and predictable, and the gag became redundant. The laughs faded, turned to chuckles and then only to a half smile. In its waning moments it descended into anarchist farce, mimicking Network (1976) in sardonic lawlessness and an untimely final death but lacking its poetic qualities. Instead forcing the ending arbitrarily - a rotten cherry on top - showing only desperation to seem provocative.
The premise is spectacular. This is the “you had me at hello” of set ups. Our story begins in a war-room for white house PR gurus. The President is in the midst of a sex scandal only a week before election day. His poll numbers are plummeting, so his PR spin-master, Conrad Brean (Robert De Niro) is forced to take drastic measures and stage a fake, unnecessary war to distract and manipulate the naive voters. Conrad employs friend and Hollywood producer Stanley Motss (Dustin Hoffman) to organize the show. The rest of the movie consists mainly of a series of funny, sometimes even plausible, obstacles for Brean and Motss to subvert. To them Politics is only a game. They snicker at voting and make a mockery of the Democratic process. That's their job. But settle down, it's all in good fun.
The script is in many ways tight, packed with punchy jokes, smart situational humor, satire that walks a fine line of whimsical but not stupid, biting but not angry, and best of all has funny acting: De Niro looks intelligent enough to be the spin master (especially with his beard); Anne Heche does her best to be a strong, level headed and not wimpy assistant; Dennis Leary works as a pitch man, though I wish he would have let out more of his fire; and Dustin Hoffman is fantastic as the producer. He's shrewd but with a cockeyed optimism that, no matter what happens, he can make bologna into filet.
Hoffman is filet but why is Wag the Dog bologna? This movie has so much quality and yet fails. I think it's because it attempts to perform an impossible balancing act. It has a dominant, convincing unrelenting “cynical side”. The ultimate recipients of this movie's jest are common people, the masses, the voters. Brean and Motss create a fake war on the assumption that people are stupid, gullible, blindly sentimental, overly patriotic, and most important incredibly easily distracted. But Wag the Dog falls apart, loses its laughs, becomes even somewhat tiring because it doesn't have an equal or even existent “human side.” The ordinary people, dumb enough to believe in a war or a hero, never get a say. None of our funny characters like Brean or Motss transcend their comedy. They only exist for our amusement and to act out their cynicism. They are indifferent to other people. The ending only reinforces this point: Brean with a stone face and cold blood orders his friend's death. This movie, though with wit and intelligence, only scratches the surface of its topic. It doesn't venture into the cause and effect. It shies from real people, non-caricatures, because then things are less complicated.
Wag the Dog is in the end a missed opportunity. But let's not dwell on what could have been. I'll remember that at least for the first hour, I laughed and laughed.

New York, New York (1977)

2009-07-24T13:04:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/24/09

I popped in the DVD for New York, New York and up came the option, “Yes” or “No”, to first watch an introduction by Martin Scorsese. Of course I selected “Yes,” interested in what the great director had to say. In the introduction Scorsese mapped out his thoughtful and interesting plan in making New York, New York. The premise: to mesh the old style musical from the 1950's - glorious, lavish but obviously fake sets, big colorful hats, and hundreds of extras – with modern conversational, often improvised dialogue between the stars Robert De Niro as Jimmy Doyle and Liza Minnelli as Francine Evans. Scorsese used similar style dialogue brilliantly in Mean Streets, Taxi Driver (“Are you talkin' to me?), and Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore. Unfortunately, that meant I wasn't to expect any classic 50's musical one liners. But instead, as a consolation, the new style dialogue lends itself to more edgy scenes. When Jimmy and Francine are off stage, in the car or their bedroom, their back and forth has a chance to be more melodramatic but heartfelt, or in Robert De Niro's case, whiny, embarrassing but funny. With the modern colloquial Scorsese can more easily stick to a story in his wheel house: two odd ball lovers, talented, charming, hooligans scrounging on the streets of New York. It's a strange, somewhat counterintuitive but intriguing juxtaposition: the realism of vernacular improvisation with the pastel colored, candy-land, Stanley Donen-and-Gene Kelly-style fantasy world.
From Scorsese's description, I was very excited to watch New York, New York, curious to see if everything would fit. But after watching, I was disappointed.
My intended first sentence and initial reaction to the movie was.... “New York, New York is a glossy, perky, well funded bad idea. Pretty, snazzy but uncomfortable to watch from start to finish. The fundamental problem is in pairing Robert De Niro and Liza Minnelli as the star couple.”
It's hard to tell if Scorsese's idea would have worked with different actors or with less “old style musical” or less improvisation. Scorsese showed the ability, particularly in the last 30 minutes featuring Liza on Broadway, to make a fun lively musical. We also know he can make fantastic poetic realistic movies starring De Niro. But the pieces never came together. The story is jerky, and Liza and De Niro in more ways than one don't work together.
In the first 15 minutes I was distracted by the burning question, why would he be with her? The movie-star good looks courting the ugly duckling? Then I started to think, why would she be with him? She's talented, well mannered, while he's an obnoxious bullying pest. But then my father, who was watching with me and hearing me scoff frequently said, “just get past it.” He's was right, so I did. I accepted the seemingly ludicrous terms of the movie.
De Niro and Liza, Okay. So I decided to immerse myself in their story. They meet, fall in love and get married so fast I hardly see how they got from point A to point B. I saw them together, bickering, then all of a sudden hugging, holding hands and wrestling in bed. I don't think that's how love progresses. Where are the ups and downs, the hot and heavy? They yell and scream at each other and yet they're in love.
So, the story is lax, but I was hoping Liza and De Niro would have good chemistry. Maybe they're a sweet combination like Astaire and Rogers (even though she was a little out of his league). But to my further dismay, Liza and De Niro are horrible together. The scenes when they're alone with each other are almost painful to watch. De Niro clearly overwhelms Liza in improvisation. She is put back, eh, eh, eh, about to talk, but silent. (In her defense, she actually sings and he fakes playing the saxophone.) He is overacting for the role. Someone needed to pull the reins back on his enthusiasm for being annoying. De Niro is out of place in front of the painted backgrounds of 50's style musicals.
In the end Scorsese makes his intention to go against the grain too obvious. He commits musical heresy. De Niro and Liza DON'T end up together. Their work keeps them apart, they're too afraid to talk, and that's it. The movie fades without romanticism into oblivion. Their separation is a strange unexpected twist but oddly anti-climatic. Maybe because I've been sensing the miss-match from the start.

Poltergeist (1982)

2009-07-23T10:42:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/22/09

Poltergeist: an epic battle between a spindly fluffy haired mom and the angry spirits of the dead, modestly entertaining, creepy, but with one too many mysteriously moving inanimate objects and a story full of holes.
Living under a subdivision and specifically Diane (JoBeth Williams) and Steven's (Craig T. Nelson) wholesome family home are spirits. They terrorize, furious that the always evil real estate agents built housing on top of their cemetery.
The terror is at first conservative: a stormy night, a dark closet, weird noises, an eerie old tree, and a spooky clown. The suspense builds at a slow but reasonable pace, not particularly exciting but with my confident expectation of a good payoff.
Suddenly the terror and movie spirals out of control into the laughable and ridiculous: the tree possessed, grabs a small child Robbie (Oliver Robins). There are TV monsters, green fog ghosts (reminiscent of Ghost Busters), another dimension that sucks you in and spits you out covered in red slimy goo. After the cute daughter Carol Anne is whisked away by the spirits into the strange dimension, the family first seeks help from three parapsychologists, Dr. Lesh (Beatrice Straight), Ryan (Richard Lawson) and Marty (Martin Casella). They are overwhelmed: Marty inadvertently eats a maggot covered drum stick and scratches off his face (bad use of makeup). Unable to retrieve Carol Anne, the parapsychologists consult a spiritual medium. Tangina (Zelda Rubinstein) speaks with the spirits, gibber jabbers about demons and souls and telepathy (the actors trying to keep a straight face). When the courageous mother Diane enters the dimension tied to a rope and rescues Carol Anne, all is well, despite Steven being attacked by a giant clay head that looks like Mussolini (from Amercord).
The spiritual medium proclaims “this house is clean,” and the family is back together. The movie seemed to be limping to a finish. I was, at first, unaware more absurd terror was to come. The family decides to spend one last night in the haunted house and the mother takes a warm bath leaving the kids alone in their room: these were my clues to the impending onslaught of insanity.
Diane, half naked, is thrown around her bed in a thrusting, humping motion and then dragged up the walls and across the ceiling. The aforementioned spooky clown becomes possessed and starts chocking Robbie. The dark closet turns into a giant orange anus and coffins and skeletons start sprouting up from the ground. Finally some explanation, some attempt at clarity: the spirits of the dead were terrorizing because they were mad about their tomb stones being moved but not their bodies.
By the end my head was aching. I was out of breath, annoyed that it carried on and on. Poltergeist is mildly entertaining PG horror for the first hour, but it has no direction and little purpose. There aren't any characters, only a puppet family to wail and scream, their triumph over the demon spirits supposedly showing the strength of a traditional family's kinship (Note - Steven reads “Reagan: The Man the President” and at the end they ditch TV). There is not much of a story, only a 114 minute long excuse to show 1982 special effects. It drags on with no end in sight but with timeless clever lines like “they're here,” and enough budget to make a great horror movie, all Poltergeist needed was a more focused script.

Last Year at Marienbad (1961)

2009-07-22T17:18:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/22/09

I can recall entering the library on a dreary day, or maybe it was sunny, walking up the staircase to the third floor, or maybe it was the second, each step awkwardly small, forcing me to skip two, or maybe they were awkwardly big? I searched through the stacks of VHS tapes, or maybe they were DVDs, and found Last Year at Marienbad. I had heard it was worth seeing from reading Roger Ebert, or maybe it was Pauline Kael? I checked it out and noticed on the back someone had written, “this is SO boring,” or maybe that was Bresson's L'argent? I went home and watched the movie with my brother, or maybe I was alone, or maybe I've never seen Last Year at Marienbad before at all?
In Last Year at Marienbad, this is the kind of arduous journey we take into the depths of failing memory or just dream. We sit in awe, perplexed, shaking our heads, rubbing our eyes, either to avoid falling a sleep, or hoping to awaken from a nightmare. It's bewildering, frustrating and hypnotic. All of it or none of it may have happened. It is impossible to distinguish real from dream. Eventually just give up, but try to stay awake, because Last Year at Marienbad has redeeming value?
Don't try to understand it, don't try to put the pieces of the “story,” together. Try to ignore all of your conventions of movie watching. There is no story, there are barely any characters, just ornaments to the so called hotel. They are like phantoms, some of them only statues, manikins, and fashionable black-tie zombies. They seem absorbed into the hotel like Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining.
The camera, at first, only observes the hotel. It has the mood of a funeral, organ music for a haunted house, bizarre enough to be a Twilight Zone episode. The building is mournful, huge, luxurious, silent, deserted, “encrusted with cold paneling, stucco, molding, and marble.” Then, after the first 15 minutes, the camera moves with more urgency: running through the halls, peeking into every conversation, trying to find the reason it's here or the person it's interested in.
Eventually it finds a beautiful woman “A” (Delphine Seyrig), her husband “M” (Sascha Pitoeff), and a stranger “X” (Giorgio Albertazzi). The stranger approaches the woman and insists that they met the previous year, arranged to meet again this year, and planned to run away together. The woman at first insists “No.” But gradually acts more uncertain. They talk and talk, incessantly, about if they met before, if they'll meet again. Sometimes, using the exact same words in different places or wearing different clothes. Their conversations become self-parody, mocking of the previous conversations. The movie progresses like a kid running down a steep hill, unable to stop or change direction without tumbling. But after 95 minutes, the kid and the movie reach the end of the hill and fall flat on its face. Peeling its head off the cement street floor, the throaty narrator says “you were even now, losing yourself forever in the still night, alone with me.” I guess bringing “X” and “A” together, or perhaps simply forgetting, waking up, or finally remembering.
What is left from Last Year at Marienbad? Black and white photography may never have been done better. Despite confusion, irritation, we are left with a feeling. Our main character, “A” and “X,” have a desperation similar to Elle and Lui, in another of Alain Resnais films, Hiroshima Mon Amour. Elle and Lui were fearful and desperate to make the most of their final days of life. “A” and “X” seem to be in the first days of realizing they're dead, “shadows,” trapped in hell, trying to escape.
Last Year at Marienbad is an unparalleled experience, almost indescribable, like a distant memory or a dream.

The Sacrifice (1986)

2009-07-21T17:01:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/21/09

This film begins in the wet grassy fields along the foggy island beaches of Gotland, Ingmar Bergman's famous work place. We watch from a distance an old man, Alexander, played by the great Erland Josephson, and a small mute boy (director Tarkovsky's son), plant a tree. Alexander laments, ponders, lets out his innermost thoughts and philosophies, uncertain if the little boy is listening. They stroll through the meadow, Alexander leans against a tree, saying man is not a savage because “savages are more spiritual,” then along comes the post man, Otto (Allan Edwall) on his bicycle. Not soon after, the rest of Alexander's family joins him by the tree. They all go back to his house.
Alexander lives alone, he is a poet, writer, artist and his family is visiting because today is his birthday. There are smiles and laughter, conversations, arguments and awkwardness. In every frame Tarkovsky attempts to assemble a painting. Through this beginning The Sacrifice seems a more reserved, toned down version of Tarkovsky (for better or for worse, I'm not sure). But suddenly the house is rocked by loud, banging noises, a jar of milk falls from a shelf. A jet had just flown over. It turns out, they are in the midst of war. The rest of the film is more like the Tarkovsky from The Mirror, Solaris.... There are strange unexplainable images, confusion, the miniature house from Solaris and the fire from The Mirror.
Wathing a film by Andrie Tarkovsky is like dreaming. One second can feel like an eternity. Your heart beat, blood pressure, entire metabolism slows down. Awaken, and you feel dizzy. It is difficult to remember or understand what you have seen. The memory of the dream and the movie is a blur.
As the credits start to trickle down, I can't help but sit still, staring at the screen, absorbing the moment, the feeling. It's hard not to think that it is important, that you may never feel the same again. It's hypnotic, bizarre, and haunting. The people appear to glide or float, moving slowly without urgency, wafting through the air like ghosts. They are sullen, longing for change, but hopeless: groaning and wailing, sloshing in a puddle of sorrow and self-pity. They talk and talk and talk, rambling on about art, love and death. The atmosphere is murcky, cloudy and dim. The colors are a muddle of browns and grays. Tarkovsky is a unique profound experience in film.
During the filming of The Sacrifice, Tarkovsky was dying of cancer. The early passages of the film reflect his desperation for a calm, retrospective film. The end, reverting to his normal style, may reflect his exhaustion. Tarkovsky died shortly after the film was finished.

Le Crime de Monsieur Lange (1936)

2009-07-21T10:16:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/20/09

Jean Renoir's camera frolics merrily around the courtyard, skipping and dancing from one star-crossed lover to the next, from the concierge's room to the printing office to the spiral staircase to the hall where friends and family share a drink. The courtyard is a congenial cheerful milieu with characters of all personalities, ready to laugh and sing the melodious dialogue from Jacques Prevert and Renoir's collaborative script.
In Le Crime de Monsieur Lange, Renoir has created a small community: Lange, our shy fool, Valentine, the pleasant savvy beauty, the drunkard who turns over the three trash cans, the innocent girl and the concierge's son sneaking a kiss by the stairs. No matter what their plight or misfortune, they all cherish their environment. They fear the depression that lurks outside. It's only when Lange commits his crime, that he and Valentine leave scared but hopeful. But maybe it's all for the better. Lovers, Lange and Valantine now have a chance to be alone together. Maybe Lange's crime and their departure is a gesture to their friends, forever making the courtyard the utopia of everyone's dreams.
The dialogue and the ambiance in Le Crime de monsieur Lange are splendid but the strength is also in the acting. Rene Lefevre as Lange, though timid and often boring to watch is perfect for the role. He is always daydreaming, ignoring the world and the women around him. Valentine says “your problem is you're always dreaming.” For most of the movie he is oblivious to Valentine's love for him. . Lange may be the only character who feels trapped in the courtyard. He dreams of the expansive areas, the open air, the freedom of the frontier. He writes a cowboy story series for the publishing company called “Arizona Jim.” (Reminding me of Holly's books in The Third Man).
Within our lovely town there was only one problem: the charming, conniving, deplorable yet lovable crook, Batala played by Jules Berry. He is the perfect villain. He smirks with the confidence of being a very successful manipulative thief, almost asking to be shot. But then in a flash he can seem like your friend. When Lange turns his cowboy fantasies to reality and finally shoots the villain Batala, it comes as a somewhat abrupt shock. I wondered, despite the answer being in the title, if Lange had the guts to shoot Batala. For a split second I thought perhaps Rene Lefevre had killed Jules Berry for stealing the show. Batala's death is one of the great scenes in all of Renoir's films. He falls gracefully. The camera spins, 360 degree pan, spinning and spinning around the courtyard: jarring yet refreshing, giving Batala and Jules Berry a well deserved exclamation point.
This movie is the work of a master in his prime. Other masterpieces were to follow: Sunday in the Country, Grand Illusion, The Rules of the Game. In Le Crime de Monsieur, Renoir captures the romanticism, beauty and joy of film.

American Beauty (1999)

2009-07-20T16:31:00.001-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/20/09

American Beauty is a mesmerizing, bombastic Freudian Office Space. It's exhilarating yet tranquil, funny, sardonic, with superb acting: a truly thrilling experience. In American Beauty we're haranguing on the suburbs AGAIN. And this movie will tell you the hidden truth about your sorry lives, (not that Hollywood has been keeping it a secret).
We are all boring and lame and suffering. We are all trapped within our white picket fences and our cubicles but we just don't know it. We all need to let out the fire in our libido.
But don't worry. This movie is our antidote, our rebellious anthem. Quit your job, buy the Firebird convertible you always wanted, mouth off to your wife who hasn't had sex with you for weeks, and ignore your bratty teenage daughter. According to American Beauty, that will make you feel better, that will make you truly happy. (Until your angry wife, or the closet-homosexual to whom you gave “the wrong idea” kills you execution style.) But you know, as the movies say, “life is short.” So you might as well spend your precious time “living.” Did you hear that! Crank up “American Woman” by The Guess Who, light up “the good stuff” that cost three grand from your dealer next door, fantasize about your underage daughter's cheerleader friend. Who cares, just live. And then by the end of your life, which might be rapidly approaching, you'll feel proud. Because you lived your life, at least for a short time (about a year), dancing like a plastic bag in a whirl wind.
Wow. It feels great to get that off my chest. I love a good bi--- slap of all the conformists in the world who love their job and families. They're all really “dead” anyway. American Beauty makes me feel good (I'm being serious). I don't care that it's full of platitudes and new psycho babble like if he's a strict military man who preaches discipline and homophobia then he must be gay. I don't care that the most level-headed character in the movie likes to videotape dead birds and the girl next door. I love that American Beauty bemoans the ordinary sane world and glorifies the absurd borderline depraved people.
Let's give a round of applause to the players. Kevin Spacey is extremely good as the husband, Lester, who does his version of destroying the copy machine (from an aforementioned movie). Annette Bening is perfect as the distraught pantsuit wearing real estate agent wife who gets off on local sales records. American Beauty is full of strong supporting performances: Thora Birch as the “hates her parents” black eye-liner wearing teen, Mena Suvari as the insecure cheerleader, Chris Cooper as the military man, Peter Gallagher as the “king of sales” and Wes Bentley as the thoughtful drug dealing “freak.”
American Beauty is a spectacular nihilist vision. Though it may be a staple of the setback in thinking about the world, and people, in modern movies, it gave me goosebumps of delight.

Iron Man (2008)

2009-07-20T10:29:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/19/09

When the lights go down, or when you press “play” on your remote for a movie like Iron Man, all logic must be temporarily ignored. Explosions come in bunches but they rarely result in someone's death. Everyone is a potential villain except for the face on the DVD box. All we need to know about a comic book action movie is, how witty is our hero and who is his female counterpart? The answers in this case are very witty, kudos to the actor Robert Downey Jr., and the girl is Gwyneth Paltrow, in a very strong performance especially given her superhero groupie role. The sense of timing in its explosions and thrills exceed any of the critics' whipping boy Micheal Bay's best efforts. But the strength of Downey Jr. and Paltrow's performances and their fantastic chemistry make Iron Man an exceptional action movie.
All of these elements considered, Iron Man is a can't miss movie for action fans, but it has something else that should make casual fans run to the theater. Can you guess what it is?...... It's the least common feature of the typical comic book action movie, aside from smart dialogue (sorry to say, still somewhat lost in Iron Man)......I'll give you a hint. You saw it in The Dark Knight (remember the scene when the ferry load of convicts and the ferry of regular passengers are given the choice to blow up the other before they're blown up themselves)......It's intelligent ambiguity: memorable, intriguing, clever scenes.
I'll give you only a taste, so as not to spoil the fun. Robert Downey Jr. plays a prodigy weapons manufacturer and playboy, Tony Stark. He preaches that the Manhattan project defeated the Nazis and his elite weapons save lives. But when he is attacked by terrorists using his guns, while on a trip to Afghanistan, Stark turns humane. He builds the “Iron Man” suit to retrieve his weapons. But he finds out that without his knowledge, his company was making under-the-counter deals, and the terrorists were only pawns in an in-house conspiracy (sound familiar?). Now he faces a larger opponent, his own company and more specifically his vindictive former right-hand-man, Obadiah (Jeff Bridges).
Stark thought he was creating weapons for safety (okay, maybe he just thought he was making lots of money) but he was wrong. So instead he tried with the “Iron Man” suit to create technology to fight weapons but eventually even that is used for destruction. Why does every advance in technology translate into bigger, badder weapons?
The comic book action movie has been improved. Explosions, wit, and thinking: fantastic.

Advise and Consent (1962)

2009-07-19T10:20:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/18/09

Frank Capra's 1939 camp classic Mr. Smith Goes to Washington shaped future portrayals of politicians and the democratic system. The Hollywood formula for a successful movie about our democracy became the lovable, bumbling, wide eyed optimist from a small town who takes on money grubbing east coast Harvard suits. But 23 years later times have changed. And Advise and Consent, directed by chronically contrarian Otto Preminger, paints a new picture of our democracy. He's shown us rape in Anatomy of a Murder and drug use (with needles and mania, oh my) in The Man with the Golden Arm, always with the utmost class (by that I mean sometimes too flat). With Advise and Consent he's done it again. It's not glamorous or extremely thrilling but it's admirably blunt and honest. The politicians are not good or bad, guilty or innocent. They're noble and intelligent but they're human.
Watching Advise and Consent was an oddly fun experience of being routinely wrong on my assumptions about characters. Every time I was introduced to a character I placed him, based on his appearance and demeanor, into a Mr. Smith formula stereotype. The first character that gave me a pleasant surprise was Henry Fonda as Robert, a Secretary of State hopeful. Before the advise and consent of the Senate, Robert had to stand trial for suspicion of being a communist. Obviously I was thinking, it's Henry Fonda, he looks so trustworthy, there's no way. It turns out he dabbled in red ideology in college.
I was wrong again and again. The exuberant semi-fanatic activist Senator Van Ackerman (George Grizzard) is ironically willing to kill for world peace. The Vice President who says he's “afraid” to be President is actually the most “underrated” leader. The slick hair Senator with a hot wife from Utah, Brigham Anderson (Don Murray) frequents gay bars. And the witness accusing Fonda of being red, played with the perfect desperation by Burgess Meredith, is not a lier (or lying) just crazy.
But the most rewarding, while also somewhat disappointing, assumption I made was about the McCarthy-esc Senator Seab Cooley from South Carolina, played in his last brilliant performance by Charles Laughton. Seab is a rotten, slimy, sniveling, scheming, cockroach. He persecutes Fonda only for vengeance. But in his old age, though he treasures his crotchety, fear mongering reputation, he is sadly (because I love nasty manipulative characters) exhausted and ready to bargain.
The acting and directing in Advise and Consent is fantastic. The Senators have a rare quality in movies about our democracy: the ambiguity of being ordinary people. They're just playing a roundabout, confusing game. They're good, bad, innocent, guilty, honest, lying humans. At the end I felt a little cheated. I spent 140 minutes and the movie seemed to have achieved nothing. No one won, no big important bill was passed. But then I realized that's exactly right. Advise and Consent had me tripping over my own feet in wrong assumptions and I loved it.

Patriotism (1966)

2009-07-17T11:08:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/16/09

Let me first explain, Patriotism is a short film directed by the renowned Japanese play writer and author Yukio Mishima. In it, Mishima and actress Yushiko Tsuruoka perform a seppuku, also known as a harakiri, which literally means stomach cutting. This film foreshadowed Mishima's actual death in which he and four understudies locked themselves in the Tokyo headquarters for Japan's Self-Defense department, tied up the commandant, made a speech to Japanese soldiers which was intended to inspire a coup, then committed the ritual suicide including the final beheading of Mishima. Mishima had foreshadowed this event in many of his books and plays. The short film is available on the Criterion Collection. You can also learn more about Mishima's life by watching the fantastic film Mishima: A Life of Four Chapters.

Now I'll tell you what I think of the short film.........

Patriotism is extremely well made with beautiful black and white photography. The high contrast photography accentuates the abstract and organic shapes of the human body. It is a vivid and fascinating portrayal of the ritual suicide. Though perhaps unintended by Mishima, who wanted Patriotism to show how romantic and noble a seppuku is, Patriotism exposes flaws in a feudalistic, militarist society. There's is also an interesting strangely erotic nature to the ritual suicide in Patriotism........But..........Call me naive......... I hate how Yukio Mishima exploits the film medium. He used Patriotism as a publicity stunt to increase his fame in 1966 and to increase his legend, making it a piece of the puzzle that foreshadowed his own suicide. Mishima was a genius at marketing himself. He wore funny clothes, dated famous women, appeared in gangster movies (only if he died in the movie) and did outrageous things all to increase his fame. He thought he would receive a Nobel prize for literature if he increased his notoriety overseas. So, he decided to make an eye-popping short film (you can learn all of this, as I did, in the text that comes with the Criterion DVD of Patriotism). Other than winning a Nobel Prize, everything worked out the way he planned. Patriotism was nominated at prestigious short film awards, his fame increased throughout the world, and his eventual suicide drastically increased his legend. He did it all because he's a self centered, ego maniacal lunatic. What's more selfish than killing yourself to further your legend? And I hate that it all worked. Be cynical, tell me every director makes movies only out of self interest, fame, legend, and I'll ignore you. I like to think otherwise.

Mad Max 3: Beyond the Thunderdome (1985)

2009-07-17T11:04:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/17/09

I love the explosions and the chase scenes and the “Australian desert post apocalypse wild west,” and the villains with Mohawks and Mel Gibson as Mad Max. And in Beyond the Thunderdome the creativity and the ingenuity of the first two Mad Max movies is pushed even further. Pushed to the point of ridiculous, which is usually a good thing. But, I'm sorry to say, Beyond the Thunderdome didn't tickle my fancy for the absurd like The Road Warrior. I just didn't like all the innovations of this movie. I'll describe a few and if they sound interesting I recommend the movie.
There's the Thunderdome. I've never seen anything like it before. It's a semi-sphere shaped cage, where you fight while attached to a giant rubber band or bungee cord, which you use to catapult yourself to the top to retrieve weapons. It's interesting but I thought it was just silly to see Gibson fling around the cage like a pin ball.
There's also the new post-apocalypse source of fuel. It's innovative, creative and disgusting. Bartertown, the hell hole that Mad Max is visiting, produces methane gas by concentrating “pig sh--.” Just to warn you, Max and many others will often be covered in pig poo. The duty scenes were sometimes funny but mainly gross. Maybe I just wasn't in the mood.
The last creative element, which I liked, is the character Master-Blaster. It's really two characters in one: Master, who is the smartest person in Bartertown but a dwarf, and Blaster who is the biggest and strongest person in Bartertown but mentally challenged. Master is attached to Blaster's shoulders and does the speaking while Blaster does the blasting. Master-Blaster is one of many characters in the Mad Max series with hilariously straight forward names like Humungus from The Road Warrior.
There are also a few other things in Beyond the Thunderdome that aren't necessarily “bad” but had me peeved. First of all, I thought Gibson looked stupid with long locks and unkempt facial hair. The shaggy hair makes sense because he's stranded, but it looks decidedly less cool. Second, I found it frustrating seeing Max help a gang of ignorant lame kids. That's not really even his character. He's supposed to be a loner. He supposed to only help others if there's something in it for him. And Third, though overall the villains are good, especially Tina Turner, Beyond the Thunderdome has an irritating cliché villain “that just won't die.”
Beyond the Thunderdome is a strange and interesting action movie. Though I prefer The Road Warriors, Thunderdome is probably the most memorable of the series. It is certainly worth seeing though after the first two, the “Australian desert post apocalypse wild west,” not Max, has overstayed it's welcome.
With Mad Max 1, The Road Warriar, and Beyond the Thunderdome it was a great ride.

Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (1981)

2009-07-17T11:01:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/16/09

The Road Warrior, the second in the Mad Max trilogy, creates a new, more rightful persona for the action hero. Mad Max doesn't protect the weak and “good” people because he is kind and moral. He doesn't attempt to defeat the “bad” because they are immoral. (And he also doesn't always get the girl. ) Instead Mad Max (Mel Gibson) is as the movie says a “desolate” man: lonely, wandering, scrounging the earth for food and oil to fuel his V8 engine. He knows only driving, fighting and most of all the Australian desert “post apocalypse wild west” rules of survival. He has lost his wife and child (in the previous movie) but he doesn't, as James Bond would, just get a new girl. When one sexy number gives him the “thank you for saving me, now I'm ready for bed” routine, Mad Max doesn't even bat an eye. In fact he is almost dead inside. We see only small glimpses of his ability to care for people other than himself. He suffers and faces death every day and yet, he plugs along. He has the strength and courage to defend himself so he lives.
He doesn't sound much like a hero, but as circumstances arise he finds himself fighting for the right team: the good guys. Mad Max doesn't survive by taking advantage of others, while at the same times not letting the villainous take advantage of him. He lives by “fair is fair,” “a deal's a deal.”
The Road Warrior is a superb action movie. Mel Gibson is terrific as the cold blooded hero. The first sequel in the Mad Max series took the strong base from the first movie, “style, an exotic setting, some cool chase scenes”, and ramped up the creativity. This movie is full of strange and fascinating images and full of interesting gadgets. The villains who were awful in Mad Max, are less stupid, less annoying and at least tolerable. They still howl and scream but at least they don't laugh uncontrollably like they're supposed to be imitating someone high on drugs as they did in the first movie (and in Death Wish).
This movie is very entertaining and the ending is an instant favorite. Here's a preview. Mad Max makes a deal with the “good guys” to get back at the “bad guys” and ends up a sacrificial lamb: all the more satisfying. I'm ready for thirds.

Mad Max (1979)

2009-07-16T16:44:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/16/09

Mad Max presents a new world for action, a post apocalypse kind of wild west with open roads instead of frontier, with motorcycles and souped-up cars instead of horses, but limits itself to the same action movie conventions.
There are chase scenes, chase scenes and more chase scenes. There is a bike riding gang of villains who terrorize for absolutely no reason. They howl and scream and look like idiots. They make you hate them, not because they're evil but because they're so stupid. They are only one step above the villains from the Death Wish movies. Their unbearable unintelligent behavior makes their inevitable death very sweet, but the ride long and frustrating.
In Mad Max there is also a girl, attractive, obviously, who finds any chance she can to go wondering off by herself. Doesn't she know every attractive women in an action movie is vulnerable, helpless and perfect bait for villains? She goes for a stroll in the woods, on the beach, to the ice cream store and every time we hear the roar of the motorcycle gang's exhaust. It's predictable but makes for great suspense.
Oh yeah, and there's a hero, Max (Mel Gibson). He is apparently a police officer, but in this world the difference between an officer and a criminal is only in the uniform (sound familiar like almost every western ever made). At first Max just goes about his business: arresting and pursuing the bad guys. But once his best friend is burned to a crisp by the motorcycle gang, and his precious wife and child have been terrorized, he turns “Mad” and goes on a killing rampage.
You see, in action movies if the hero kills the villains when all they've done is menace other villains, innocent men, old people, or ugly women then that's uncalled for. But if villains hurt wives, children or attractive women, then our hero has free rein to torture them.
Mad Max is action for action's sake and there's nothing wrong with that. It's entertaining when the guys hit the open road and leave the story, dialogue and women back home. It needs smarter villains, and either a stronger story and better dialogue or heck, how about none at all? But this action movie has got a strong base: style, an exotic setting (Australia), some cool chase scenes and some relatively creative deaths. It's a perfect foundation for a sequel, or two.

Edward Scissorhands (1990)

2009-07-16T11:22:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/15/09

When a suburban town's local Avon saleswomen visited a big spooky mansion perched atop a hill that overshadows the pastel colored houses, she saw a lonely innocent boy with scissors for hands and said “I think you should just come home with me.” Just let that description stew and bounce around in you head............
This is the first scene of Tim Burton's Edward Scissorhands and it is indicative of the movie's charm and also its problem. Its charm is in Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas, James and the Giant Peach sense of wonder. As a result it is relatively enjoyable. But it leaves me unsatisfied because of its faulty structure and concept.
Edward Scissorhands is a clashing mix of fairy tale and social satire. The movie takes Edward, with his gimp clothes and goth hair cut, and puts him in a tired stereotype of a suburban town. The men all leave for work at the exact same time, and the wives stay home, tip toe on their high heels around town and gossip with each other about frivolous things. Edward, of course, doesn't fit in and blah, blah, blah funny wacky moments with his scissor hands. The town is supposed to be, though exaggerated, a mirror of real life (that's what satire is), but Edward is a totally implausible character. He has scissors for hands. That's ridiculous. I kept wondering, how is he supposed to go the bathroom? Burton put him in real life situations, in a town that is supposed to satirize real towns, as if Edward could possibly be real himself.
The point of the movie is too ask, what if a strange person with scissors for hands was put in a suburban town? How would people react? How would he act at a barbecue? How would he eat with scissors for hands? How would the house wives and and their corporate golf playing husbands and their bratty spoiled teenage children try to exploit his scissoring abilities? And what type of girl would fall in love with the outcast scissor hands man (In this case Winona Ryder)? Well, I'm sorry to say this, but all of those questions and the subsequent scenes that attempt to answer them are stupid because no one can ever have scissors for hands. By putting Edward in real life situations, the fact that he is an implausible character is magnified. Every time he struggled to eat even a pea, I was reminded, didn't he live in a giant mansion alone for many years? How did he eat then?
I don't mind a fairy tale and I don't mind a social satire but Edward Scissorhands is an awkward mix of both. The movie might have worked if Edward was put where he belongs, with other implausible characters in an implausible place. It also may have worked if Burton blew me away with creativity, in the places and the characters and the situations so I'm left not caring if it makes sense. (Trust me, that's worked many times before.) Edward is a creative and interesting character stuck in a cliché suburban town living out lame plot lines. Don't get me started on Edward fighting for Winona's love with her obnoxious ex-boyfriend.
You won't mind Edward, even if he looks like Robert Smith of The Cure, but unless you've always wondered what would happen if a man with scissor hands were thrown into the gauntlet that is suburban America, Edward Scissorhands is a let down.

The Fly (1986)

2009-07-15T17:21:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/15/09

It's the utter and total absurdity that makes a movie like The Fly and many other science fiction movies so tantalizing. The Fly is gross and disgusting and yet irresistible. I found my self wincing and cringing but unable to look away. It's a strange fun experience. David Cronenberg, one of the masters of weird, took a simple horror movie from the 50's and added his flair for the revolting. The claymation is intentionally ugly and yucky. (It reminds me of Peter Jackson's Dead Alive.) But don't be fooled. This does not just titillate all of our fancy for the nasty and foul. The Fly is smart and intelligent. It's disagreeable to our stomach but hearty food for thought. There are great performances, witty dialogue and delectable undertones.
Let's start with Jeff Goldblum. He is fantastic as the neurotic loner scientist Seth Brundle. Seth is developing a teleportation device. He meets a journalist Veronica (Geena Davis) at a science fair meet-the-press event and they immediately hit it off. Goldblum and Davis' clever back and forth conversations are wonderful. They have sex, they fall in love, but then Veronica's ex-boyfriend and boss Stathis (John Getz) interferes. Seth thinks he's been used by the journalists for a story, and in a drunk jealous tizzy he decides to, for the first time, teleport himself. But as Seth is being teleported a fly sneaks into the “telepod,” turning Brundle into the genetic offspring of himself and the fly. Brundle slowly turns from man to a very hideous giant fly, or as he calls it “Brundlefly.” His face becomes course and lumpy. His entire body deforms. He can no longer digest solid food so he liquefies twinkies and candy bars by spitting on them with acidic foamy stuff (this is apparently similar to the way flies eat.).....(I'm shaking my head.)....It makes me feel queasy just thinking about this.
But again, remember, you might not think you'll like it, or dare ever say you liked it, but everyone has the itch for the “eeewwwwww gross.” Watching The Fly feels like being a little kid again, playing in the dirt. And this movie has many redeeming qualities. Let's get to some of the undertones. Brundle is becoming a freak. His slow but impending death is made clear to him every day when he looks in the mirror. He even keeps a medicine cabinet full of detached body parts (ears, teeth....). When you think about “Brundlefly,” he is not that different from any human. He is similar to the elderly or the diseased who can see death coming in their wrinkles, arthritis, and deteriorating vision. The elderly and the diseased, like Brundle, also become outcasts.
Another interesting aspect to The Fly is Brundle, as the half fly, and Veronica's strange relationship. She still sees the man she once loved in Brundle's deformed face and changing personality. It's fascinating to see the two come to terms with Brundle's irreversible changes and the loss of their love.
But wait, there's more. In a great twist, Veronica becomes pregnant with Brundle's baby. It's unclear whether the baby will be a Brundlefly or a human. They had sex before Brundle became a fly and after, when he still looked like a man. Veronica, overcome by fear, wants to have an abortion but Brundle wants a baby. The convoluted dynamics of the situation make for a thrilling end.
The Fly is gross, disgusting and disagreeable to the stomach but you'll love it.

Julie & Julia (2009)

2009-07-15T10:01:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/14/09

Julie & Julia knows a lot about the love of food and the love of cooking but little about Julie Powell and Julia Child. You'll see lots of chopping, stirring, boiling, and roasting. You'll see Julie and Julia moaning, groaning, licking their lips and foaming at the mouth over food. You'll even see a retread of the lobster scene from Annie Hall. But you won't see anything interesting or intriguing about either Julie, not in spite of the overly cheery Amy Adams, or Julia even with Meryl Streep's unstoppable “brilliance” and “genius”. You learn as much about them as you could have reading Julie's blog or Julia's cook book.
We see Julia Child as we already know her, hoo hoo-ing around Paris, flipping and poaching. She's predictably unpredictable and always jovial. She is very loving and has never hated anyone in her life, other than the crotchety culinary school lady. She's how I always pictured Santa's housewife would be. She's played “hilariously” by Meryl Streep who is perfect for the role. The audience roars over her impression of Child's silly voice, especially in the first few scenes. But as I heard one audience member put it, the great accomplished director Nora Ephron “wouldn't let her fall into caricature.” We get used to Streep as Child and we get used to her voice. Streep doesn't get as many laughs near the end of the movie just for impersonating Julia Child. (By the way, it's not a good sign when the biggest laugh came from showing the entire SNL Dan Aykroyd-as-Julia Child skit.)
But don't we get to know the woman? No. And this is the failure of the movie. Somewhere half way through Julie & Julia I realized I've learned nothing about Child the person. We know the TV personality. We know she wrote a cook book. I could have read on wikipedia that she lived in Paris, had a husband who was investigated by McCarthy goons and was the rags to riches story of cooking. (At first she couldn't even boil an egg, OMG!) I first realized that this movie doesn't really know Julia when Julie finds out her idol, Julia Child, “hates” her blog. This came as a shock. Who is this women who said she never hated anyone? She seemed so nice. Who have I been watching this entire time, the TV personality.
This is a movie that knows Julia, and Julie for that matter, only on the surface. It knows Julia's voice and it knows her kitchen but not what she feels or what makes her tick. A few brief moments had me thinking I was about to better understand Julia. When she learned her sister was pregnant, she started weeping uncontrollably. I thought, hmmmm? Interesting, so she can't have kids. Elaborate please.....But no. The topic is left alone.
What about Julie? No one cares about her. She doesn't deserve to share the screen with the great Julia Child. Adams doesn't deserve to split a billing with the “genius” Meryl Streep. (I can hear toddlers and the elderly, the Amy Adams fan base, lamenting.).....Or at least that's what I heard from the audience. But actually, though I was ready to rip Adams, saying I found her cheeriness nauseating, I thought she was pretty good. Remember, she was also good in Doubt (2008). We learn Julie also has a great love for food. It even saved her life, or a least she thinks it did. But again, we never scrounge around in her cookie jar. We never learn the secret recipe that makes her Julie. I guess this movie's motto is who cares about the why? Who cares about the ingredients that made the person? Julie & Julia only cares about the finished product, the food, the scrumptious and delicious food.
This movie is perfect for all the women I see at the gym who watch the food network while on the elliptical machine. This movie is perfect for the women on the Atkins or South Beach diet who go to restaurants, order a salad and then drool over the food other people ordered. This movie is perfect if you watch it on an empty stomach and are then going straight to a reception serving gourmet food (as I was). But for everyone else Julie & Julia is an over-cooked beef bourguignon.

Europa (1992)

2009-07-14T12:26:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/13/09

Behind every window shade, always kept pulled down, in Europa is barbed wire, starving children, endless and endless destruction. Europa is a mystical world of only flickering lights, glowing snow and the moon and the stars to brighten everlasting darkness. The people sleep all day and work all night. Everyone cheats and lies and has killed just to survive. It's Germany in 1945 and it's a frightening place for an idealistic American.
If you watch Europa, you will be that innocent American. A deep and melancholy voice (that sounds like Darth Vader without the wheezing, actually Max von Sydow) will count from 1 to 10. You see a glimmer of light traveling up a railroad track - the same tracks you might have seen in Shoah(1985) or Alain Resnais' Night and Fog (1955). And then you hear the voice. “You will now listen to my voice. My voice will help you and guide you still deeper into Europa. I shall now count from 1 to 10......1......2......3......” The voice lulls you to sleep. It attempts to put you in a hypnotic state, similar to the state you were in watching any one of Tarkovsky's movies (Stalker, Nostalgia, Solaris, The Mirror). It's a state where the pace of time is slower. “......On 6, I want you to go deeper. I say 6 and the whole of your relaxed body is slowly beginning to sink......7......You go deeper and deeper and deeper......8......On every breath you take you go deeper......9......You are floating......On the metal count of 10 you will be in Europa......Be there at 10...... I say 10.”
If you haven't already guessed, this movie is the work of none other than Lars Von Trier. We discussed his “movie from hell” Dogville (2003). We also discussed his “thought provoking” Breaking the Waves (1996). No other director today is more bold or more talented or more truly disturbed and insane as to attempt to delve into his character's and audience's souls. He's trying to do as Bergman once did. He puts his heart into his work and the results can be brilliant as in Breaking the Waves or disastrous as in Dogville. I wish I could give you a more definitive opinion of Europa, but my reaction to the result of Lars Von Trier's passion and madness is mixed. He had me in a trance when Sydow was counting to 10. He had me in a trance for most of the movie. The werewolves, the German transportation head slowly, one small cut with his razor at a time, killing himself, the occasional small glimpse of color, it all worked. I loved it when one suffering German said to us, the naïve American, “You're so good and understanding. I find that a little provoking.” But the relationship between the American (Jean-Marc Barr) and the German(Barbara Sukowa), the supposed love, the one glimmer of humanity in Europa: fake, contrived, a weak effort with little passion and finally (Lars undoubtedly smirking at the sad end) the love, the glimmer dashed by nothing else but lies. And the end, although poetic and wonderful, predictably dire. The American, dead. Our carcass drifting in a river in Europa. The voice returned once again, “You are in a train in Germany. Now the train is sinking. You will drown. On the count of 10 you will be dead......1......2......3......4......5......6......7......8......9......10..... You want to wake up, to free yourself from the image of Europa. But it is not possible.” This is the End. It is an end scene of agonizing torture. It is brilliant, masterful and unbearable. That is so Lars Von Trier.
He's done it again. He has me all riled up. I'm reeling and filled with emotions. No matter what my reaction, if I love it or hate it, a Lars Von Trier movie if bizarre, mystical, hypnotic, infuriating, absurd, extraordinary, is always worth seeing.

La Bête Humaine(1938)

2009-07-13T18:39:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/13/09

By the end I was out of breath. I couldn't take any more of the depressing and overly bleak view of people. La bête humaine is often sad but beautiful, poetic and full of passion. Jean Renoir is a genius of atmosphere. La bête humaine has a fantastic cast that includes Jean Gabin as a train engineer, Simone Simon with her bedroom eyes as the seductress and Fernand Ledoux as the troubled husband of Simon, Roubaud. La bête humaine can be strange, sick and riveting but there is only so much jealousy, lust, manipulation, murder and Gabin's strange delirium I can take. The grim nature of the movie is tiring.
We first meet train conductor Jacques played by Jean Gabin who is all greasy and dirty for the roll. Jacques is a strange tormented man. He is a big strong train engineer but appears weak and vulnerable. It turns out he has a weird pathology. Whenever he begins to fall in love or lusts for a women he is overcome by the urge to kill. He says everything gets “hazy” and he can't control himself. We first see Jacques' illness when he holds and kisses former loved one Flore (Blanchette Brunoy) and then suddenly starts chocking her. Jacques tries to keep to himself in fear that he'll kill someone.
We also meet the young luscious Séverine (Simone Simon) and her husband Roubaud. Séverine had a tough childhood and has grown up to be bitter and scheming. Every man she meets tries to use her for sex, so she uses their lust against them. It's her way of controlling them. She uses her husband to kill her lover Grandmorin (Jacques Berlioz). The murder is committed on a train and witnessed by Jacques. Jacques saw Roubaud and Séverine go into Grandmorin's cabin so Séverine seduces Jacques so he won't tell the police. Séverine then tries to manipulate Jacques into killing her husband by convincing him she has always loved him. But just as Jacques is going to kill Roubaud he suddenly becomes delirious and stabs Séverine.
Both Séverine and Jacques are tragic characters. They are unable to love. As the song goes in the movie, Séverine offers her heart to everyone but never gives it away. Jacques on the other hand is forced to avoid love because of his illness.
Everyone in La bête humaine is tormented and sad. The fantastically photographed, monstrous train represents every character's life barreling down a deep and dark tunnel. Finally at the end Jacques can't stand his tortured life anymore and jumps off. He relieved himself and the audience of any further depressing, melancholy exhaustion.

A Feminist Slasher for the Moron Trade

2009-07-13T18:35:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/12/09

Why did I react with so much hostility to Fatal Attraction? Why did I want to call Glenn Close as Alex Forest a psycho bi---? Why was I taking cheap shots at her frizzy hair? Something about Fatal Attraction had me repulsed by Alex and feeling connected to Michael Douglas' character Dan Gallagher. Well, Alex did boil a bunny. But wait, I “wanted her dead” before that. I wanted her dead when she was initially disturbing Dan's humble home: the beautiful and subservient wife, the happy child and the golden retriever. Am I afraid of the strong independent Alex? Okay, I'm not that guy, but I do see what this movie is getting at. This is a feminist anthem, or so it seems. I thought the “strong woman” theme wasn't in the dialogue but I was wrong. It's there.
Let's examine this carefully, scene by scene. We begin to get a sense of the feminism theme when Dan and Alex have dinner. Alex first asks Dan, “Where's your wife?” Dan is shocked. He can't believe Alex is putting their inevitable one night stand into perspective. She's intentionally ruining his fun. He can no longer pretend the soon-to-be affair was only in the throes of passion. Now he feels guilty as if he's already cheated. Alex, taunting Dan, calls him a “naughty boy.” Then Dan eases his own guilt by responding, “I don't think having dinner with somebody is a crime.” Alex replies, “Not yet,” reestablishing her control and thus making Dan feel guilty again. Dan tells Alex, “I definitely think it's going to be up to you,” taking the guilt and blame off himself.
Dan and Alex have their one night stand. Alex attempts suicide, not very “in control,” but she's human, and Dan tries to ignore her. Alex confronts Dan with strength and reason. It's fascinating to see Dan squirm. He completely loses his composure when Alex threatens his lifestyle (the humble home). Alex says, “You've had your fun, now you just want a quiet life,” and Dan replies, “You need a shrink.” Then Dan finds out Alex is pregnant. He assumes she'll have an abortion but when she says she's going to keep the baby and says, “I was hoping you would want to be a part of it,” Dan mumbles, “This is crazy. This is Insane.” Later Alex proclaims with a sense of righteousness and entitlement, “I'm not going to stop until you face up to your responsibilities...I'm not going to be ignored....Don't you ever pity me you smug bastard.” Dan cowers and says, “You're sick,” and Alex defiantly responds, “Why? Because I won't allow you to treat me like some slut you can just bang a couple times and then throw in the garbage. I'm going to be the mother of your child. I want a little respect.”
When I step back and think about Alex and Dan up to this point it occurs to me: Alex is not a psycho, she's feeling unstable and vulnerable after her suicide attempt but she's not unreasonable. Dan is just a coward. He's trying to take the responsibility off of himself and pretend Alex is vindictive and everything is her fault. He's pathetic.
But wait, is this a feminist masterpiece? No. We've only examined the first half. After Dan and Alex's two confrontations everything changes. Alex does becomes a psycho bi---. What else can you call a person who vandalizes cars, threatens via cassette tape, boils bunnies, kidnaps children, and tries to knife Dan and his wife? Fatal Attraction reneged on its strong independent women theme of the beginning. The second half can only be described as a tawdry slasher story. (By the way, the fact that Dan's wife is the one who ends up killing Alex is a nice touch but the damage had already been done.)
In the first half, Fatal Attraction was hinting at something very intriguing. Alex is a strong independent women who seeks respect and Dan treats her like she is a psycho bi--- because she threatens his conventional lifestyle. But when Alex becomes the psycho bi--- she only feeds into the male audience's ignorant fears. Making Fatal Attraction nothing but a feminist slasher for the moron trade.

Fatal Attraction (1987)

2009-07-12T10:59:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/11/09

Fatal Attraction is a dowdy version of Play Misty for Me (1971). It has some of the same cheap thrills but lacks the punch, the bite, the sheer twisted ludicrous insanity. This review may not be fair, I loved Play Misty for Me, but because both movies have the exact same story we must compare the two. There probably wouldn't be a Fatal Attraction if there wasn't a Play Misty for Me. Also the bathtub “Fatal” ending is straight out of Henri-Georges Clouzot's Les Diaboliques (1955). This is a copycat movie.
The details are different but the premise is the same. Michael Douglas is a lawyer, Clint Eastwood, a radio disc jockey. They both have one night stands with desperate women. Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction doesn't initially seem as crazy as Jessica Walter was in Play Misty for Me. (By the way, Close is the “Attraction”? Her hair made her look like a troll doll.) Close and Walter turn out to be nutty and become obsessed with their respective movie hunks. When Douglas and Eastwood try to blow them off they both attempt suicide. Now the two men have serious hassles on their hands. They've got steady relationships to worry about. Douglas also has to worry about his daughter. Both Eastwood and Douglas are afraid the object of their “weekend of fun” will spill the beens. They don't know the half of it. These women are beyond a hush problem, they're deranged and vindictive. Eastwood and Douglas are in for some serious torture.
Both of these movies have their moments of chilling horror, but Play Misty for Me digs deep, it's memorable. You'll be sleeping fine after Fatal Attraction. The main reason: Play Misty for Me has stronger performances. Jessica Walter in Play Misty for Me was tawdry and tasted rotten, perfect. Glenn Close is too upscale a psycho bi---. I only wanted her dead half of the time. The other half I thought, maybe they'll work it out. Walter loomed over Play Misty for Me with a delectably evil force. Michael Douglas is OK. He's dumb enough to cheat but heroic enough to “save his marriage.” But is anyone capable of matching Clint Eastwood's unstoppable coolness. Eastwood doesn't even need to speak (not that he does). Anne Archer as Douglas' wife is too nice. She's begging him to cheat on her, like Jocelyn Brando was begging to be blown up in The Big Heat.
Fatal Attraction is a humdrum sexploitation thriller. It's fun most of the time. But I was disappointed by the lack of creativity and newness. So, if you are considering watching Fatal Attraction, remember there's this movie, it's called Play Misty for Me, and it's much better.

Love on the Run (1979)

2009-07-12T10:51:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/11/09

The Antoine Doinel of Stolen Kisses and Bed and Board was tolerable. He was even a little charming when he wrote love letters, visited whore houses and eventually settled down with Christine. But in Love on the Run his act has over stayed its welcome. Now in his late thirties, his love affairs with nubile women like Sabine (Dorothee) are pathetic. By this stage he has forgotten about his wife Christine. She apparently has a few too many wrinkles. But as much as we are supposed to love Antoine, I feel good for Christine for being free from him. He's a loser.
In Love on the Run, Antoine and Christine are getting a divorce so Antoine can make his forbidden affair with young Sabine officially passé. Antoine is also trying to refuel an old relationship he had with Colette, from Antoine and Colette (1962).
Love on the Run is filled with overwrought nostalgia for the previous movies in the series. Half the movie consists of clips from The 400 Blows, Stolen Kisses, and Bed and Board. Mixing clips of the masterpiece The 400 Blows with this movie made me cringe.
Jean-Pierre Leaud was quoted as saying the Antoine series was “over” after Bed and Board. I think he was on to something. Love on the Run takes this beloved character past his expiration date. If you liked the 30 minute short Antoine and Colette and you liked Stolen Kisses and you even liked Bed and Board, I still think Love on the Run will disappoint you.

Bed and Board (1970)

2009-07-12T09:31:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/11/09

Antoine Doinel, the little ruffian from The 400 Blows, is now grown up. He's settled down, married, not happy but satisfied and no longer running. We all had high hopes for Antoine, he had fire in his eyes, but it turns out he's normal. So normal, that I am somewhat uninterested. This Antoine tries to be witty and has a light hearted personality. But he is whimsical to the point of being annoying. I don't take him seriously. His personality change from The 400 Blows is mainly the result of Jean Pierre Leaud's acting. I called his acting in Stolen Kisses “cute but incredibly flimsy” and it hasn't changed. His air of “I don't care” is supposed to be funny and at times gets a few chuckles but by the end is stale. Antoine and Christine are a darling couple. They're like Anna Karina and Jean-Claude Braily in Godard's A Woman is A Woman. Their shenanigans make me smile, but after one squabble and one silly affair I'm tired of their routine.
In Bed and Board Christine and Antoine are married. Everything is going great. Antoine cheats with a semi racist-stereotype of an Asian woman. (I thought it was stupid, you might think it's funny.) Antoine and Christine separate but Antoine gets sick of the weird Asian stuff, like sitting on mats, so he returns to Christine. That's it.
Bed and Board is dainty and pleasant. If you liked Stolen Kisses, I think you'll enjoy Bed and Board. But if your time is precious, skip it.

Stolen Kisses (1968)

2009-07-10T14:39:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/10/09

If you watch Stolen Kisses expecting the same Antoine Doinel and the same Jean-Pierre Leaud and even the same Francois Truffaut from The 400 Blows, as I was, you will be sorely disappointed. But let's put that movie behind us, I'll put that disappointing experience behind me. Let's think of this as a new Antoine. Let's step back and judge Stolen Kisses against all other movies we've seen, the trash and the masterpieces. If we do that, than Stolen Kisses is not half bad. If you think of Stolen Kisses as “just another movie” when you enter the theater (that plays old foreign movies, yeah right), or when you pop in the DVD, you might even enjoy it. It can be quite funny. You won't be falling out of your chair or anything, but you might chuckle. I did once or twice. As romantic comedies go, it's cute, but not too cute to make you want to throw up.
In Stolen Kisses Antoine has grown up a little. He's learned the whimsical, foolish lover, routine. We meet Antoine as he's just dropping out of the army. He's thrilled to be back in Paris. The first thing he does is skip to the nearest whore house. He's quite a rascal. He uses his boyish good looks to get several jobs including one working for a private detective agency. Antoine comes across a few women throughout the movie, most notably, Fabienne (Delphine Syrig) who's a sexy middle aged woman, and a previous love Christine (Claude Jade). They run around, and blah blah blah he ends up with the nice one.
There is really not much to tell about Stolen Kisses. It has its funny moments. If you love young people, you'd probably enjoy these kids' charades. Claude Jade's dumbfounded look can be adorable. She looks like a tame version of Catherine Deneuve. And Delphine Syrig is a pleasant surprise. But with Stolen Kisses there is one crucial point I need to make. What happened to Jean-Pierre Leaud? There was so much fire in his eyes in The 400 Blows (sorry to bring that movie up). His so called acting can only be described in this movie as cute but incredibly flimsy. It's impossible to take him seriously. And I know this is not supposed to be a serious movie, but it's like John Stewart or Jimmy Fallen, when they look like they're about to break character any second the act isn't funny. It doesn't allow us to “suspend disbelief.” Jacques Tati as Mr. Hulot, who makes an appearance in another Antoine movie Love on the Run, or Charlie Chaplin put 100 percent effort and seriousness into their comedy. That's why they're so funny. But, oh well, I'll put that behind me too.
So hey, there's this movie by Francois Truffaut staring Jean-Pierre Leaud. He plays a kid named Antoine Doinel, ever heard of him?.... No..... Good, go see it, it's not half bad.

The 400 Blows (1959)

2009-07-10T13:28:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/9/09

The 400 Blows is one of the extraordinary experiences in film. Watching it is to personally absorb Antoine's suffering. You'll never feel more connected to a character in a movie than with Antoine Doinel (Jean-Pierre Leaud). The 400 Blows revolutionizes the relationship of the movie and its audience. We are no longer detached. The characters are no longer heroes or villains for us to glorify or idealize. There isn't a conventional narrative with a beginning, middle and end, for us to pretend is real and simply go along for the ride. With The 400 Blows we have a more intimate relationship with the movie and the characters. We dive straight into Antoine's life. He is not a hero or a villain but a person that we care for and we see as a part of ourselves, like we would a friend or a loved one. We don't regard his decisions and actions as ones that exist only to move forward a story. Instead they exist as simply a reaction to his life. While watching, we are not waiting for something interesting or important to happen, we are closely following Antoine. We, the audience, exist in the present, in a state of “being” in Antoine's life. I found myself regretting Antoine's mistakes as if I had made them or as if I could have prevented them.
Antoine is an adolescent, probably 14 (Jean-Pierre Leaud's age when he played the part), who attends an all boys school in Paris. He lives at the mercy of many adults who scold him and lecture him but don't care about him. As a result of his childhood of turmoil, he seems unable to care about his own life or other people. He talks with indifference about his mother's contempt for him. He says he lies to his parents because “if I told them the truth they wouldn't believe me anyway.” Antoine still has enough life left in him to run and run and run as much as possible. He tries as often as he can to escape. He seeks independence. Every once in while, when he's failed a school paper, or skipped class, when he has done something to irritate his parents, Antoine flees from home. He wanders around the city. Sometimes he stays at his friends house, but sooner or later when he's out of food he returns home . His life is cold and depressing but he seems to blindly press on.
Jean-Pierre Leaud is brilliant as Antoine. His performance is one of the best by a child actor in movie history. One look at Leaud as Antoine can bring you near tears. You can see in his face and his eyes that his life has destroyed all of his innocence and joy.
John Constantine contributes a moving and memorable score. There are also strong supporting performances by Claire Maurier as Antoine's mother, Alber Remy as his father, Guy Decomble as the School teacher, and Patrick Auffay as Antoine's best friend.
The 400 Blows is a realistic vision of one child's sorrow and hardship. Director Francois Truffaut presents Antoine in such vivid detail that he seems to be Truffaut's childhood persona. The 400 Blows can be sad, but thankfully Truffaut fills us with optimism with an ending that is uplifting. Antoine throughout the movie says he wishes he could see the ocean. Near the end, he is put in a boot camp. He then escapes and reaches the coast. As he approaches the water he slows down in disbelief. He steps into the water, the ocean washes away his problems, and for a moment, for at least a second, Antoine has hope.

Short Cuts (1993)

2009-07-09T14:25:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/8/09

In Short Cuts we don't meet just one character, who moves forward a story. There really is no story to tell. We never truly understand any single character's personality. Instead we meet a city, LA, and LA has many characters and all of those character's silly, strange, depressing lives combine to form LA's personality. LA in Short Cuts is a professional phone sex girl, a nightclub singer, a cello prodigy, a pool man, a horror movie makeup artist, a painter of “colorless” naked women, an anchorman, Claire the Clown, a doctor, some housewives, a patrolman, a helicopter pilot, a drunk, a waitress, dozens of ignored children, and much more. They all are intertwined masterfully in Robert Altman's style by small coincidences. And what the people of LA have in common is that they all cheat and lie and are generally unhappy. Some of them are even on the verge of suicide or murder.
Short Cuts is a significant achievement in its ability to weave so many small stories and characters together. Short Cuts paved the way for movies like Crash, Babel and Magnolia. In Short Cuts Robert Altman is trying to accomplish something profound that may have never been tried before in movies. Instead of trying to understand the mind of a single person, the protagonist, he attempts to understand the collective mind of everyone. Maybe he's just trying to understand human nature. In Short Cuts we get the sense that the dozens of characters in LA are all of one conscience. And the final Earthquake, with an apocalyptic message, brings all the characters even closer together. They all experience the same feeling. Instead of indirectly affecting each other, they are all being equally affected by the same thing. With Short Cuts I'm confused but extremely interested.
Short Cuts has the structure but falls short of fully understanding LA. (This is a complicated point, so bear with me.) The point of movies like Short Cuts and Magnolia and even Nashville, in my opinion, is to scratch the surface of many characters, but collectively delve into a broader point. In this case, we don't fully understand any one character, but we are supposed to better understand LA. Altman has effectively shown me that the people in LA lie and cheat. All people in LA are also unhappy, but why? Not, why is each individual happy? I can see why the pool man is unhappy. His wife, the professional phone sex girl, talks dirty in front of their small children. The cello prodigy misses her father, and all the rest are unhappy because they're being cheated on. But why does this happen? What about LA, and what about the world, does this to people? Or, what about people, makes them do this to themselves? Short Cuts has only scratched the surface of it's broader point about LA.
I also think Short Cuts doesn't show the whole picture of LA. I don't live in LA but I know it's not made up exclusively of middle class white people. Where are the poor people, the filthy rich people, the black people, the Asian people, the Hispanic people. Maybe Altman was trying to show us the average person in LA and the US. But how can you understand a city if you've never met entire racial groups and social classes. Either way it's Altman's picture, and he can paint it anyway he wants.
I'll put that issue behind me... Short Cuts is a very entertaining movie. The 187 minutes flew by. I am amazed at Altman's ability to weave together such a large ensemble. The acting is superb, Robert Altman always brings the best out of his actors. In Short Cuts LA is Fred Ward, Andie Macdowell, Bruce Davison, Tim Robbins, Julianne Moore, Matthew Modine, Anne Archer, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Christopher Penn, Lili Taylor, Robert Downey Jr., Madeleine Stowe, Tom Waits, Lily Tomlin, Frances McDormand, Peter Gallagher, Jerrett Lennon, Annie Ross, Lori Singer, Jack Lemmon, Lyle Lovett, Buck Henry, Huey Lewis, and Dirk Blocker.

Days of Being Wild (1990)

2009-07-08T16:01:00.001-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/8/09

I wish Wong Kar-Wai would pull the restraints off his tired love stories. His photography is often beautiful. He can make a night time street corner look like a magical dream world. His camera “glides through walls” reminiscent of Max Ophuls. He weaves characters together masterfully. Why is he always peddling lame, “we've been through this a thousand times,” love stories? In Days of Being Wild we're stuck with a rag tag bunch of basket case “young adults.” Too old to be innocent and too young to be wise. They're 18-25 and they're bitter, cynical, mopey, indifferent and then all of a sudden lustful in a period of 90 minutes. They are “wandering,” searching for love or just a one night stand. These are the same people we saw in many of Jean-Luc Godard's movies. Except they aren't fodder for Godard's mocking. Wong Kar-Wai is trying to take them seriously, as if their problems, hardships, and short lived semi-serious desperation is extremely important and interesting.
Our main character in Days of Being Wild is Yuddy, played by famous Chinese actor Leslie Cheung. He's slick, he's smooth, and he knows how to act like he is damaged and needy so he can pick up women. But once he gets them into bed he can't wait to get them out the door. Yuddy tells women he's “a kind of bird with no legs. All it can do is fly and fly. When it gets tired, it sleeps on the wind. This bird can only land once in its whole life. That's the moment it dies.” Later we are told “that bird never actually flew anywhere because it was dead from the very beginning.” That sounds about right. We've come to a realization. The movie is telling us we've been watching dead people the entire time. No wonder I thought all the characters were so bland.
But I will say I find that story catchy and it leads me to an interesting point about Days of Being Wild and all Chinese movies. Watching a Wong Kar-Wai movie can be a frustrating battle of repressed emotions. All the characters look like they are trying to hold everything in and restrain themselves. It is similar to something directed by Robert Bresson (shooting a scene 50 times to strip the emotion from the characters faces). Maybe it's part of Chinese culture and tradition to not show your emotions. But so many times while watching Days of Being Wild and definitely while watching one of Wong Kar-Wai other movies, In the Mood for Love, I wanted someone to scream. The characters with a fire burning inside them, the ones that look like they're going to explode can be interesting. For much of Days of Being Wild I thought Cheung showed some of that interesting quality. But the characters that suppress their motions to the point of seeming dead inside are completely tiring.
There's one thing I always feel after watching a Wong Kar-Wai movie. I'm always left wanting more. Because, with all of his talent and skill, I still am willing to wait for the moment the story gets interesting and the emotions gets ramped up and he reaches magnificence.

Branded to Kill (1967)

2009-07-08T15:52:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/7/09

Branded to Kill is a jumbled mess of originality. There is an incomprehensible story, one ridiculous killing after another, naked women everywhere, and a camera that jumps from one strange sometimes awkward but sometimes brilliant angle to the next. It's like Jean-Pierre Melville's Le Samurai or Goldfinger or one of John Woo's better movies gone totally insane and out of control. But of course, I thought it was fantastic. Yes it needs some tidying up (or maybe that would ruin it), but I must commend director Seijun Sezuki for making a movie that jumps out of the screen. It pops. It still today, 42 years later, seems inventive and radical. I thank Sezuki for influencing directors like John Woo and Quentin Tarantino. What would we do without creative violence in movies like when “killer No. 3”, our protagonist assassin, kills one of his targets from a basement by shooting up a sink pipe? How can I forget a hilariously ridiculous scene when two killers hug, then both shoot each other simultaneously in the gut, one falls to the floor, then the other executes him, flips his jacket over his shoulder, saunters away and then collapses, but just before he dies pulls his jacket over his head?
Branded to Kill is in every way absurd, and yet very exciting. Some scenes look blatantly fake and cheap, while others are handled with great directorial precision. The first half looks like a mash up of a low budget original and a well funded remake. Speaking of the first half, it was totally bewildering. The killings come so fast. Then “Killer No. 3” is in his house with his wife and she's running around naked screaming “Horny!”(She was never not naked.) Then they're having sex on a spiral staircase (which just looked uncomfortable) and then all of a sudden she is trying to kill him. Finally the wife did some explaining, and I came to my senses. The killings were all part of killer 3's assignment, and he learned the purpose from his wife just as we did. It was all because of some diamond smuggling stuff, which doesn't even matter. I realized that, of course, assassins wouldn't find out why they are killing. Their life is just one brutal killing after another with some meaningless sex in between. If they ever found out why they were killing they would be liable to squeal. (By the way, the wife turns out to be a spy, so Killer 3 kills her by shooting her in her naughty parts.)
I started looking at Branded to Kill in a different way. It's actually quite smart. It's not just exploitive of violence and naked women. Sizuki knows what he's doing. There is a thematic method to his madness. He is studying the mind of the killer. As in Le Samurai and in John Woo's The Killer.
After the wife's explanation I was in for more bewilderment. But I guess that's this movie's charm. Killer 3 falls in love. We know this because he sees butterflies (literally), with a woman named Misako. He is supposed to kill Misako but can't. Misako understands their situation perfectly. Killer 3 threatens “I can kill you with one shot” and then Misako replies “you won't until you sleep with me.” Later Misako is killed by strange men, or so it seems. Killer 3 tries to revenge her death, but then somehow gets tangled up with the mysterious “Killer No. 1” (there are many numbered killers, 1 being the best). The movie ends with a show down in a dark gymnasium where, go figure, everyone dies.
Some people may hate Branded to Kill because it doesn't really have a story and can be confusing, but that doesn't mean it is not worth seeing . Just sit back and enjoy the creativity. A beautifully weird killing can be a work of art. And a movie like Branded to Kill can be a jumbled mess of brilliance.

Eastern Promises (2007)

2009-07-07T15:19:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/7/09

Suspense builds beneath the surface even with the occasional sudden eruption of savage violence. Viggo Mortensen as Nikolai struts and shrugs and nods his head with a sadistic nonchalance. David Cronenberg is not as creative as in Vidiodrome or Crash, more traditional, but also more stylish, more calm and more likable for the modern audience. The stylishness is mostly thanks to Mortensen. Many wouldn't call Eastern Promises or his recent History of Violence calm because the bloodshed can be hard to stomach. But Cronenberg's recent movies are calm because they deal with realistic characters and subjects.
The subject in this case is the Russian Mafia in London. A Mafia that is new and sexy. The strange foreign language is fresh. The tattoos that mark their deathly accomplishments are twisted yet glamorous. We're all tired of the Italian Mafia anyway. Some of the new Mafia's style we are familiar with like the greased up hair, the so called language of subtleties (secret code like “the coast is clear,” plus nods, winks...), along with the low brow manipulation and ruthlessness. The central characters are actually somewhat boring on the surface. There is a half Russian half British midwife Anna(Naomi Watts) who “just cares about the baby,” poor and helpless as it is, that was left behind by a dead Mafia prostitute. And there is also a Mafia chauffeur Nikolai (Viggo Mortensen) who has some other yucky jobs as well. The characters are only interesting because of Mortensen's and Watts' brilliant acting. There is something deliciously evil about Mortensen's appearance and demeanor. But at the same time, when it comes to women, of course he's capable of humility. As for Watts, she just seems down right exhausted with everything. It gives her character a feeling of desperation, like she is unbelievably needy. She is helping an orphan baby, but she needs it as much as it needs her. She can't be in her right mind when she is dealing with the Mafia. She is supposed to be just “an ordinary person,” doesn't she know the Mafia is dangerous?
Part of me wishes David Cronenberg was still making insanely creative and inventive movies. And I know they aren't as lucrative, but there are not enough movies like that being made today. But oh well, these movies are fun. I love it when movies can accentuate the coolness of evil characters, as sick as that may sound. Plus, I was totally immersed in the story.
My only problem with this movie is that, go figure, Mortensen turns out to be a good guy all along. He played the seductive villain perfectly, why does he need to turn out to be good? At least, in the end, it's not like he's Mister Rogers good, he's still pretty bad. You have to be a little perverted to be an undercover rat.
Eastern Promises is a little good, a little bad, a little crazy, mostly realistic, always stylish and always fun.

Ninotchka (1939)

2009-07-07T09:30:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/6/09

To hell with politics. Turn that frown upside down. What about love? What about laughter? Lets first start with a smile. It will make the whole world better.
This is the lovely and enduring message of Ninotchka and of To Be or Not Be (an equally splendid movie) and of any Ernst Lubitsch movie for that matter. To explain Lubitsch's approach further look at what Leon (Melvyn Douglas) says to Ninotchka (Greta Garbo) as he tries to get her to laugh. He pleads “Smile at anything, at the whole ridiculous spectacle of life, at people being so serious, taking themselves pompously, exaggerating their own importance” and later saying “I can't leave you. I won't, not until you laugh at least once.” That is Lubitsch's mission, and he fulfills it over and over again. Go see Ninotchka or To Be or Not to Be or Trouble in Paradise because they're all wonderful. There is so much love and joy for people, so much elegance and playfulness in a Lubitsch movie. His characters have an endearing silliness about them but are at the same time nuanced. While their comedy may at times seem slapstick, it can be very biting satire.
In Ninotchka we first meet three Russian comrades on an assignment in Paris to sell diamonds formerly owned by the Grand Duchess Swana (Ina Claire) to raise money for starving people in Russian. When the three buffoon comrades Iranoff (Sig Ruman), Buljanoff (Felix Bressart) and Kopalski (Alexander Granach) get manipulated by Leon, who is working for Duchess Swana, the hard boiled diligent Ninotchka is sent from Russia to help. When Ninotchka arrives at the train station in Paris, a man comes to help her with her bags and she calls it a “social injustice.” She's very red. The minute she meets Iranoff, Buljanoff, and Kopalski she gets right down to business and refuses to meet with the scheming Leon. When she has a break in her work she decides to go scout Paris and study its mechanical structure. While on the street she stumbles upon Leon (one of the movie's many perfectly scripted coincidences). They immediately fall in love. Leon breaks Ninotchka's rough exterior with charming wit. They don't realize that they are enemies in the legal battle over the diamonds. Their love intersects with their politics. Leon is a bourgeoisie consumerist dilettante. He once thought of love as simply juvenile and middle class. Ninotchka says she puts her country, her morals, convictions, all that stuff first and before love. But she has one precious week until she'll be sent back to Moscow so why not treasure the few moments she has with her beloved Leon? Leon has broken her shell. She can finally laugh at the world, at Russian grumpiness, and at scoundrels like Iranoff, Buljanoff and Kopalski. She looks at the photo of Lennon she carries with her and says “Smile little father, smile.” During the week Ninotchka comes to her senses. (And here comes the satire.) Who cares about the ideals, the morals, the poor workers? All her troubles wash away with one lustful glance by Leon. Shucks, what's wrong with liking the weird hats and fancy dresses they sell in Paris? Ninotchka thinks Russia might want to give crazy old capitalism a whirl. She pronounces (though drunk) “Lovers of the world unite. No we won't stretch up our arms. We won't clench our fists. Our solute will be a kiss.” In the end she forgets all that communist mumbo jumbo and just lets herself live happily ever after with Leon.
So, what about love and what about laughter? What about that first smile, that smile that will brighten the world? You'll find it in Ninotchka.

The Last Detail (1973)

2009-07-06T12:34:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/5/09

Billy “Bad ass” Buddusky (Jack Nicholson) is a snarly, boozing career sailor. Larry Meadows (Randy Quaid) is a naïve and timid sailor being sent to jail for petty pointless thefts. They seem completely different and yet deep down they are the same – depressed and afraid.
“Bad ass” and “Mule” Mulhall, an equally sour career sailor, finally have a job to do and it's not doing “shit detail” at the “shit hole” (their naval base) like they're used to. They've got a special job. They have to escort eighteen year old sailor Larry Meadows to the brig (navy prison). Meadows has been sentenced to 8 years in prison with a dishonorable discharge for attempting to steal 40 dollars from a polio fund box. Meadows is quiet and unassuming so “Bad ass” Buddusky and “Mule” think they have an easy job. Buddusky sees this as a good time while traveling across the county to have fun. The only problem for Buddusky is that something about the trip with Meadows scares him.
Buddusky notices that Meadows doesn't care about being sent to prison. He surmises that Meadows is just afraid of being independent. Meadows is a childlike idiot and he needs to be told what to do. Buddusky's solution is to show Meadows a good time and let him experience the finer things in life. He gets him drunk, takes him ice skating, “gets him laid” (with a young whore played with great melancholy by Carol Kane) and Meadows enjoys it. By the end we and Buddusky realize that Meadows has grown. He has broken out of his shell and values his life. This makes it all the more difficult for Buddusky to send Meadows to jail.
Meadows, Buddusky and “Mule” all have a fantastic time on their trip, but by the end depression sets in. Meadows now dreads being sent to jail. Buddusky and “Mule's” trip with Meadows reminds them of how disappointed they are with their life at the naval base. They're as trapped at the “shit hole” as Meadows will be in prison. They hate the “shit hole” but they can't live without it. They're career sailors, it's all they know. But they'll wait and wait for their next chance to hit the sea. They're probably in a weird way hoping for a war to break out.
The Last Detail is a must see movie. It's a fascinating character study. I feel like I know these characters. I want to keep thinking about them and writing about them. We see Meadows grow as a character which is rare in movies. But despite all that you should watch this movie because of Jack Nicholson. Jack is perfect for this role. He is angry and showy. He is once again so raw and vivid and so human that he's funny. He produces a nervous laugh that makes you think he's going to burst out of the screen. Jack's Buddusky doesn't know what he wants but he knows he wants something, and now. He's angry, bitter, afraid. He's a mess of emotions. As a result he drinks, he snarls and curses and wants people desperately to keep calling him “Bad ass.”
Buddusky, Meadows and “Mule” live as we live – in fear of the world they don't understand – but they seek vices for help and eventually they learn from each other

The Crying Game (1992)

2009-07-05T13:51:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/2/09

I always think I know what is coming next in a movie, and a lot of the times I'm right, but when I'm wrong I love it. In The Crying Game I was wrong every step of the way. I loved how I never knew what to expect. And what made The Crying Game particularly effective in keeping me on my toes was that when there was a sudden plot twist the characters seemed as shocked as I was. I was just going along for the ride with the characters as they were in one weird situation after another. The character we follow the most is Fergus, played by Stephen Rea. Fergus is a kind hearted man who works as the IRA's “Mr. Nobody” mainly because he has nothing else to do. He admits to not really being worth much and not having many skills. We first meet him when his IRA group kidnaps a British soldier, played by Forest Whitaker. It's Fergus' job to guard the hostage and if necessary kill him. Fergus, being a nice guy, pals around with the hostage Jody. When Jody realizes he's probably going to die, he tells Fergus to tell his girlfriend he loves her.
The Crying Game puts Fergus in one difficult position after another. The first is, should he kill his new friend Jody or and risk being killed by the IRA. You'll see, but he doesn't even end up having to make a decision. I thought for a second this might be a movie about the IRA but it turns out I was wrong. The shack where the IRA is holding Jody gets attacked and Fergus flees to Britain. Fergus finds Jody's loved one, Dil (Jaye Davidson), and begins what will be a strange and volatile relationship. Just as I think this movie is going to become another love story between Dil and Fergus with sex scenes and tear jerking moments, I found out there's a problem with Dil for Fergus in the bedroom (By the way, I thought she looked a little manly from the start). And, by the way, the IRA is back in the mix including the dangerous seductress Jude (Miranda Richardson). Jude says she will kill Dil if Fergus doesn't go on a suicidal mission for the IRA. Now Fergus has another tough decision to make. He wants to protect and care for Dil, he even loves her in a sterile way, but is she worth risking his life for? Remember he's an extremely nice guy. In the end he makes a very honorable sacrifice.
The Crying Game is worth seeing because we never really know what to expect. We and the characters make assumptions and think we've got it all figured out, but when we're wrong we learn something about ourselves. This movie makes me think about all the assumptions I've made about people. Maybe I was wrong. The main thing I got out of the Crying Game was that being wrong in my assumptions can be a lot of fun.

Foreign Correspondent (1940)

2009-07-02T10:23:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/1/09

The devastation of war was in the air in Europe and America in 1940. Alfred Hitchcock responds with a tentative anti war statement in Foreign Correspondent. He puts together a wonderful cast, a who's who of some of my favorite actors. There is the always lovable Joel McCrea as the foreign correspondent, George Sanders as a fellow correspondent, Scott, (he's less scheming in Foreign Correspondent then I prefer him.) There is also fast talking Herbert Marshal as the sort of good, sort of bad guy spy Stephen Fisher. The girl (because there's always a girl) is Carol Fisher played by Laraine Day. She's falling in love with the foreign correspondent just as he is trying to expose her father Stephen. Day is bland for my taste, not really worth risking your life for.
Foreign Correspondent is toned down Hitchcock. He appears to be pulling his punches as the master of suspense in favor of a very moral war message. It appears Hitchcock doesn't know how to make a political point. He should stick to truly twisted suspense. (How can you not love Vertigo and Psycho.) The plot is convoluted and so is the message. McCrea plays a foreign correspondent who is inexperienced and a bit of a boob. He stumbles upon the story of the year just as war approaches. There are spies, a faked assassination, the whole lot. But no one believes him. He looks to Stephen Fisher for help. Just as he starts to fall in love with Fisher's daughter Carol, Fisher tries to have him killed. He doesn't know who he can trust, and he is starting to wish he could just ditch his correspondency and marry Carol. He's in quite a pickle. Luckily smooth talking reporter, Scott, who knows the ropes, has got everything figured out. It turns out Fisher is a spy working for the Germans. This is where the war message starts to come together. Scott is trying to have our beloved foreign correspondent killed but he's just doing it out of loyalty for his country. He's really a good guy, the nasty war is making him do it. People will do terribly uncivilized things during war. And guess who's caught in the fray, the overly good Carol (Laraine Day). She still loves her father, the traitor spy, and the foreign correspondent who is trying to expose him. I guess the message is, war is bad and people are good, but war makes good people do bad things. This message is refreshing compared to the usual, that the Germans are bad and everyone else is good. Still, this is not up Hitchcock's alley. The political message muddles his ability to have a purely exciting thriller. The movie gets boring and stale. The final scene, with the American national anthem playing in the background, is bloated. It was like the painfully long speech by Chaplin at the end of The Great Dictator. These directors should just stick to what they're good at.
Overall this is not a bad movie. It has its moments of Hitchcockiness. It is well made, just not at as thrilling as it could have been. I guess with fear of war in the air, Hitchcock couldn't resist giving his two cents.

Pépé le Moko (1937)

2009-07-02T10:20:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/2/09

The Algerian squeal to the French police called him the “prince of plunder.” But really, he's soft at heart. He cares for his friend Pierrot and treats him like a son. He is capable of dropping his gangster ways for the lovely rich French woman who is visiting Algeria. The only problem is, he's trapped in the slums of the Algiers by the police. But don't worry, have no fear, he'll find a way out. He'll find a way to get the girl. Remember, it's Jean Gabin. It's the movies. Oh crap, oh no! I started writing this before I saw the end. This is a different kind of movie. Pepe le Moko (Jean Gabin) is not so lucky a movie gangster with a heart. This ending is different, perfect. Throw aside the predictable movie endings. He doesn't necessarily need to end up with the pretty girl for it to be romantic. This is new, it's exotic, at least for 1937. Who cares if they're French actors with bad fake tans to look like Algerians. The ending is infinitely more romantic then a predictable Hollywood ending. It is romantic in a Shakespearian way. It's straight out of Romeo and Juliet. She thinks he's dead. He thinks she's gone. He goes down easy and classy to police. Kind of dull (I'm thinking), but suddenly he gets one last look at the boat she was supposed to be departing on. There she is, but he's in shackles, so he kills himself because he can't be with her. He suffered tragically for his life of crime. Pepe le Moko is a great example of the poetic realism movement of the late 1930's.
I love this movie. How can you not? It's got all my favorite actors from the Jean Renoir movies. Gaston Modot as a gangster (not that he does anything), the wonderful Marcel Dalio as an Algerian “mail man”, and best of all the dynamic screen presence, Jean Gabin. There are also a few standout supporting role performances, such as Fernand Charpin as a squeal, who's death scene is one of the high points of the movie.
This is not Renoir's movie (I wish it were) but it is very well directed. Julien Duvivier's camera slithers at low angles along the grounds of the slums of the Algiers (some on set, some on location). The music is spicy and foreign (some of that raising snakes, flute stuff).
Above all this is a gangster movie, and the gangster's savior or cause of his demise is always the woman he falls in love with. What makes this gangster movie interesting and unique is its lead. Jean Gabin gives the head gangster complexity and vulnerability. He's unpredictable. In Pepe Le Moko the only things that makes him a successful gangster are his large posse and his ability to shake the police in the Algiers. He's not very intimidating and appears to be a coward. He almost faints anytime he comes near the city and out of the slums where the police can catch him. In the end he becomes what no tough gangster wants to be - a hopeless romantic, sacrificing himself for love. But remember this movie is different and that's why I love it.

Breaking the Waves (1996)

2009-07-01T16:54:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/1/09

Breaking the Waves is a courageous work of art. Its director, Lars Von Trier, delves into the deepest and most murky areas of the human heart and mind. He questions our spirituality and morality. He explores his character's most hidden emotions. As an audience we are never really ready or comfortable watching a movie like Breaking the Waves, because we are not used to hearing the innermost thought of people. But in the end, Breaking the Waves is refreshing and satisfying. He challenges us as human beings and makes us think about our own hidden emotions. In Breaking the Waves Lars, Von Trier is putting his talents to good use. It is evident that Trier understands his characters and connects with them. Although he exposes their faults he believes that they are capable of goodness.
Breaking the Waves, like any Trier movie, is an intense experience. It is thought provoking and asks difficult moral and spiritual questions. We meet a soon to be married couple Bess (Emily Watson) and Jan (Stellan Skarsgard). Bess is credulous and emotionally unstable. After she and Jan are married, Jan has to leave to work on an oil rig in the middle of the ocean. While Jan is away Bess becomes distraught and starts speaking with God. She pleads with God to bring Jan home. She says “Oh please, won't you send him home” and she replies to herself, closing her eyes and speaking in a deeper voice, “are you sure that's what you want?” Then she says tentatively, in her normal voice, “Yes.” When Jan is forced to come home because he is paralyzed in an accident, Bess believes the accident is her fault for asking God to bring Jan home. While Jan is in the hospital he asks Bess to make a sacrifice for him. He says to Bess “I want you to find a man to make love to, and then come back here and tell me about it. It will feel like you and me being together again. That will keep me alive.” Bess believes that is her duty to obey her husband. She becomes delusional and starts sleeping with strange and dangerous men. She is doing it out of love for her husband and she believes it will make him better. She also believes that she must make this sacrifice to prove her love for her husband.
The essential moral question Breaking the Waves asks is, has Bess sinned if she believes everything she has done is out of love and is God's will? It also asks whether her strong spirituality is helpful or a detriment to her recovery. Bess says God gives everyone one talent and that hers is that “I believe.” She is unwilling to let anyone, doctors or her loyal friend played by Katrin Cartlidge, help her because she thinks God is watching over her. As a result she takes unnecessary risks to prove her love to Jan, and it leads to her demise.
Lars Von Trier is a talented director. I commend him for being bold and taking chances. Sometimes his risk taking result in failure, such as in Dogville, but in the case of Breaking the Waves the result is a huge success.

Dogville (2003)

2009-07-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 7/1/09

I hate it so much that I admire it. I know it wants me to hate it and I do. I will never watch it again, nor will anyone who watches it once watch it a second time. They'd be out of their minds. It is a truly horrible and painful experience. It has absolutely no redeeming qualities. This movie plays like an angry hate speech done by a crazed racist. Contempt for everything, particularly people, is pouring out of its seams. America is made the example for what's wrong with everything in the world. This movie is so intrepid in displaying its hate for man and America that it astonishes me. I admire it and find it strange because it truly doesn't want me to like it, or even really agree with it. I always believed that everyone wants to be liked by others and respected, but director Lars Von Trier laughs at that proposition and welcomes the idea of being alone with his bold work of art.
I sat through the 177 minutes and couldn't believe what was being done to the movies in Dogville. Maybe I'm just like one of its characters and am deathly afraid of change. But I found Trier's, so called, innovations shocking and infuriating. The most unique innovation in Dogville is that the entire film takes place on a sound stage with absolutely no set other than chalk outlining where houses are supposed to be and a few doors, beds, and other props. Movies have the ability to take the audience on an adventure to wonderful places like Vienna in The Third Man or Neverland but instead Trier takes us to a flat sound stage with Dogville and Elm St. written on the floor. Its not meant to look real. In the distance all we see is black. It has literally no depth. As a result we see the movie mostly in close-ups. There is also a lot of cutting and jerking of the camera like in a Bourne movie to make it less boring. (I'm surprised Trier even cares if it's boring.) All the actors mime opening doors or raking leaves making it painfully obvious that everything is fake. It became clear to me that Lars Von Trier is playing a sick joke and laughing at all previous movies that ask audiences to suspend disbelief. I can imagine Trier giggling in the back ground as his actors are forced to say with a straight face “All I see is a beautiful little town in the midst of mountains” or “Admit it, you've fallen for Dogville, the tall trees, the mountains.” One scene comes to mind in revealing Trier's intent. We see in a long shot, Grace(Nicole Kidman) being raped by one of the townsman in a room with no walls and all the townspeople standing in their rooms with no walls pretending not to notice. Yes, I know what you're thinking, he's making a point about the people of Dogville. You're right. The intention is that Dogville is a symbol of America and its people represent what's wrong with people everywhere. They are cowards that do nothing but hurt each other out of fear. There may be some truth in some of Trier's criticism of people, but Dogville fails miserably at trying to prove a point, because he shows no compassion. So many elements of this movie are chilling. Such as, the entire movie is narrated by sniveling voice that at some moments sounds condescending in saying Tom's house “in good times might almost pass as presentable” and then others sounds chipper in describing the nightly rape of Grace by townsmen like he was reading a children's parable. I also find it sad that a laundry list of talented actors, who for the most part did a spectacular job, would participate in Trier's game.
At some point near the end, Dogville appeared to reach a bizarre moment of clarity when it seems to ask people to change. That at least gives them the respect that they have the ability to change. That moment is quickly squashed in an ending that is very Trier. It is, for me, both disgusting and pleasing. All of Dogville (the town and the movie) is shot up by gangsters and burned. Thus ending the movie from hell.

Broadcast News (1987)

2009-06-30T16:50:00.000-07:00

Eric Jessen 6/23/09

Whenever I think of the TV news business I'll think of the movie Broadcast News and Jane(Holly Hunter), Aaron (Albert Brooks) and Tom(William Hurt) as if they were real. Broadcast News is a good movie because it knows what it's talking about. It's smart, which is less common in movies then you might think. This movie, like most movies, focuses on its characters, and their love affairs, but it doesn't use the news business as an arbitrary back drop for a few lines or laughs. It understands how being in the news business shapes it's characters. Jane, Tom, and Aaron are all experimenting with love as a basic human nature, but they all put their work above relationships.
Broadcast News' greatest strength is in the nuances of it's characters. Jane, Tom, and Aaron were all born for their jobs (as you'll see in the first scene). Jane is an obsessive but brilliant producer who is frumpish (shoulder pads, pant suits, and the same hair cut as my 10th grade math teacher) and socially awkward. (Holly Hunter's voice is annoying at first but you'll get used to it.) She likes Aaron and they enjoy each other's company, but he's ugly and she falls for Tom because he's oh so dreamy. The only problem is Tom personifies what she hates. He exemplifies the networks moving from news to entertainment. He is an idiot and knows nothing about journalism but is gaining in success off of his looks. Jane is forced to make the essential decision of the movie. Which will she chose, her job and her ethics as a journalist or Tom and love. You'll find out in an ending that strays from conventional Hollywood but is consistent with the rest of the movie.
Possibly the most entertaining character is Aaron. He is charming and witty but also bitter. He is intelligent and a great reporter, but wishes he were an anchor. His looks have always been holding him back in the news business. Ever since he was getting beaten up on the playground he acts snarky towards other people. He is in love with Jane but understands that she will never love him. He seems more than any of the other characters capable of choosing a relationship, especially with Jane, over his job.
The only problem I have with this movie is that it's realistic to a fault. It has no flash or surprises that would have me wanting to watch it again. It throws aside every sense of romanticism that we get from most movies. Usually being different is a good thing, but in this case I'm left not caring about the story or the characters because they don't change. The movie treats network TV moving from news to entertainment as an unsolvable problem and it treats its characters choosing their jobs over relationships as an unchangeable fact.
I may not watch it again any time soon but I'll always remember moments like when every so often Jane stops the movie in its tracks to take a second to cry/laugh. She's crying because of the stress of her job but she's laughing because she loves it.

Medium Cool (1969)

2009-06-30T16:43:00.000-07:00

By Eric Jessen 6/23/09

The ending was completely unexpected, bewildering. Was there a gun shot, an assassin? Was it an accident? I can't tell. I'm probably supposed to be thinking of JFK, or MLK, or other assassinated 60's people. When I saw the ending it felt good, and new. I thought, hmmmm, that seems deep. (It was the same feeling at the end of Easy Rider, The Graduate, and Midnight Cowboy, all movies I liked.)
However, it didn't take me long to think, that ending didn't mean anything. In fact, this entire movie is meaningless. It feels very 60's and cool, but that's not enough. When it came out it probably was seen as a milestone. Roger Ebert said in his 1969 review that director Haskell Wexler “has made almost the perfect example of the new movie.” He is right about that, but Wexler's Medium Cool is an example of the new movie for the wrong reasons. It's a movie of style and feeling and an environment.(60's, Chicago, protests, hippies, blah, blah, blah....) It is not a movie for thought.
There is a story to tell. I think there was supposed to be a narrative. There is a cameraman (Robert Foster) who loses his job, falls for a single mother (Verna Bloom), and connects with her son, all while living with a trendy model. The narrative, or the idea for the narrative, is not that new, but in Medium Cool it seems new. Why? Because it was chopped up with only a few scenes left for us to figure it all out. I love when movies leave things off screen, and leave things for the audience to surmise, but in this case it is done without reason. All the scenes that might have had passion were left out and the lifeless ones left in. As a result the side show narrative to all the documentary style footage of riots and mobs.... is empty. What is left is ambiguous so it seems meaningful, but it is really just shallow. Is chopping up this narrative director Haskell Wexler's version of Jean-Luc Godard's jump cuts in Breathless? Is the last scene supposed to be like Peter Fonda saying “we blew it” in Easy Rider, or the shot of John Voight holding Dustin Hoffman in his arms at the end of Midnight Cowboy, or Dustin Hoffman and Katherine Ross on the buss at the end of the Graduate? (okay, enough movie reverences) I may have been fooled all those times, thinking they stood for something, maybe I just enjoyed those movies more, but either way I won't be fooled again.